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Copyright,      i8gs 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Ube  TKnfcfeerbocfeer  iprees,  mew  IRocbelle,  tfL  J3. 


FOREWORD. 

Litti,e  Journeys  does  not  claim  to  be 
a  "  Guide  "  to  the  places  described,  nor  a 
biography  of  the  characters  mentioned. 
The  volume,  at  best,  presents  merely  out- 
line sketches  :  the  background  being 
washed  in  with  impressions  of  the  scenes 
and  surroundings  made  sacred  by  the 
lives  of  certain  "  Good  Men  and  Great." 

Stray  bits  of  information,  "  the  feathers 
of  lost  birds,"  are  here  set  down  ;  various 
personal  incidents  are  lightly  detailed 
and  some  facts  stated  which  have  been 
told  before. 

If  these  random  records  of  beautiful 
days  spent  in  little  journeys  may  brighten 
the  pleasant  recollections  of  a  few  of  those 
who  have  already  visited  the  places  de- 
scribed, or  add  to  the  desire  for  further 
knowledge  on  the  part  of  those  who  have 
not,  the  publication  will  have  fully  ac- 
complished its  mission. 


CTio 

We 
v.i 


NJ617431 


PAGE 

1    GEORGE  ELIOT  .       . 

1 

2    THOMAS  CARLYLE   . 

29 

3    JOHN  RUSKIN      .      . 

57 

4    WM.  E.  GLADSTONE 

81 

5    J.  M.  W.  TURNER      .      . 

109 

6    JONATHAN  SWIFT    . 

139 

7    VICTOR  HUGO    .      . 

167 

8    WM.  WORDSWORTH 

205 

9    W.  M.  THACKERAY  . 

231 

10   CHARLES  DICKENS  . 

259 

11    OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

299 

12   SHAKESPEARE     .       . 

339 

PORTRAITS 


PAGE 

W.  M.  THACKERAY  .        .        .        Frontispiece. 
Etching  by  Ferris. 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

From  an  etching  taken  from  life. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 3o 

From  an  engraving  by  A.  W.  Smith.  Based 
on  an  original  likeness  in  the  possession  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

JOHN  RUSKIN 58 

Photogravure  from  an  original  photograph. 

WM.  E.  GLADSTONE 82 

From  an  original  photograph. 

J.  M.W.TURNER no 

From  a  painting  by  Kramer. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT 140 

From  an  engraving  by  Holl,  of  the  Painting 
in  the  Bodleian  Library,  Oxford. 

VICTOR  HUGO 168 

From  an  original  photograph. 

WM.  WORDSWORTH 206 

From  Cochran's  engraving  of  the  Painting 
by  Boxall. 

CHARLES  DICKENS 260 

Based  on  a  sketch  by  Lawrence— drawn  in 
1838. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 300 

Based  on  the  Painting  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds. 

SHAKESPEARE 340 

From  Scriven's  engraving  of  the  picture  in 
the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


"  May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
"The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  good  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world.* 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


WARWICKSHIRE  supplied  to  the 
world  Shakespeare.  It  also 
gave  Mary  Ann  Evans.  No 
one  will  question  but  that  Shakespeare's 
is  the  greatest  name  in  English  literature  ; 
and  among  writers  living  or  dead,  in  Eng- 
land or  out  of  it,  no  woman  has  ever 
shown  us  power  equal  to  that  of  George 
Eliot  in  the  subtle  clairvoyance  which  di- 
vines the  inmost  play  of  passions,  the 
experience  that  shows  the  human  ca- 
pacity for  contradiction,  and  the  indul- 
gence that  is  merciful  because  it  under- 
stands. 

Shakespeare  lived  three  hundred  years 
ago.    According  to  the  records  his  father, 
in  1563,  owned  a  certain  house  in  Henley 
5 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


street,  Stratford-on-Avon.  Hence  we  infer 
that  William  Shakespeare  was  born  there. 
And  in  all  our  knowledge  of  Shake- 
speare's early  life  (or  later)  we  prefix  the 
words,  "Hence  we  infer." 

That  the  man  knew  all  sciences  of  his 
day,  and  had  enough  knowledge  of  each 
of  the  learned  professions  so  that  all  have 
claimed  him  as  their  own,  we  know. 

He  evidently  was  acquainted  with  five 
different  languages  and  the  range  of  his 
intellect  was  world-wide,  but  where  did  he 
get  this  vast  erudition  ?  We  do  not  know, 
and  we  excuse  ourselves  by  saying  that 
he  lived  three  hundred  years  ago. 

George  Eliot  lived— yesterday,  and  we 
know  no  more  about  her  youthful  days 
than  we  do  of  that  other  child  of  War- 
wickshire. 

One  biographer  tells  us  that  she  was 
born  in  1819,  another  in  1820,  and  neither 
state  the  day ;  whereas  a  recent  writer  in 
the  Pall  Mall  Budget  graciously  bestows 
onus  the  useful  information  that  "Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  was  born  on  the  21st 
6 


©eorge  Bitot 


day  of  April,  1563,  at  fifteen  minutes  of 
two  on  a  stormy  morning." 

Concise  statements  of  facts  are  always 
valuable,  but  we  have  none  such  concern- 
ing the  early  life  of  George  Eliot.  There 
is  even  a  shadow  over  her  parentage,  for 
no  less  an  authority  than  the  American 
Cyclopedia  Annual  for  1880,  boldly  pro- 
claims that  she  was  not  a  foundling  and, 
moreover,  that  she  was  not  adopted  by  a 
rich  retired  clergyman  who  gave  her  a 
splendid  schooling.  Then  the  writer 
dives  into  obscurity  but  presently  reap- 
pears and  adds  that  he  does  not  know 
where  she  got  her  education.  For  all  of 
which  we  are  very  grateful. 

Shakespeare  left  five  signatures,  each 
written  in  a  different  way,  and  now  there 
is  a  goodly  crew  who  spell  it  "  Bacon." 

And  likewise  we  do  not  know  whether 
it  is  Mary  Ann  Evans,  Mary  Anne  Evans, 
or  Marian  Evans,  for  she  herself  is  said  to 
have  used  each  form  at  various  times. 

William  Winter — gentle  critic,  poet, 
scholar — tells  us  that  the  Sonnets  show  a 
7 


ttbe  1baunt6  of 


dark  spot  in  Shakespeare's  moral  record. 
And  if  I  remember  rightly  similar  things 
have  been  hinted  at  in  sewing  circles  con- 
cerning George  Eliot.  Then  they  each 
found  the  dew  and  sunshine  in  London 
that  caused  the  flowers  of  genius  to  blos- 
som. The  early  productions  of  both  were 
published  anonymously,  and  lastly  they 
both  knew  how  to  transmute  thought 
into  gold,  for  they  died  rich. 

Lady  Godiva  rode  through  the  streets 
of  Coventry,  but  I  walked — walked  all 
the  way  from  Stratford,  by  way  of  War- 
wick (call  it  Warrick,  please)  and  Kenil- 
worth  Castle. 

I  stopped  over  night  at  that  quaint  and 
curious  little  inn  just  across  from  the 
castle  entrance.  The  good  landlady  gave 
me  the  same  apartment  that  was  occupied 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott  when  he  came  here 
and  wrote  the  first  chapter  of  Kenil- 
worth. 

The  little  room  had  pretty,  white  chintz 
curtains  tied  with  blue  ribbon,  and  simi- 
lar stuff"  draped  the  mirror.     The  bed  was 


ecovQC  Bliot 


a  big  canopy  affair — I  had  to  stand  on 
a  chair  in  order  to  dive  off  into  its 
feathery  depths — everything  was  very 
neat  and  clean,  and  the  dainty  linen  had 
a  sweet  smell  of  lavender.  I  took  one 
parting  look  out  through  the  open  win- 
dow at  the  ivy  mantled  towers  of  the 
old  castle,  which  were  all  sprinkled  with 
silver  by  the  rising  moon,  and  then  I  fell 
into  gentlest  sleep. 

I  dreamed  of  playing  "  I-spy  "  through 
Kenilworth  Castle  with  Shakespeare, 
Walter  Scott,  Mary  Ann  Evans,  and  a 
youth  I  used  to  know  in  boyhood  by  the 
name  of  Bill  Hursey.  We  chased  each 
other  across  the  drawbridge,  through  the 
portcullis,  down  the  slippery  stones  into 
the  donjon  keep,  around  the  moat,  and 
up  the  stone  steps  to  the  topmost  turret 
of  the  towers.  Finally  Shakespeare  was 
"it,"  but  he  got  mad  and  refused  to  play. 
Walter  Scott  said  it  was  "no  fair,"  and 
Bill  Hursey  thrust  out  the  knuckle  of  one 
middle  finger  in  a  very  threatening  way 
and  offered  to  "  do  "  the  boy  from  Strat- 
9 


Zbz  1baunt0  of 


ford.  Then  Mary  Ann  rushed  in  to  still 
the  tempest.  There 's  no  telling  what 
would  have  happened  had  not  the  land- 
lady just  then  rapped  at  my  door  and 
asked  if  I  called.  I  awoke  with  a  start 
and  with  the  guilty  feeling  that  I  had 
been  shouting  in  my  sleep.  I  saw  it  was 
morning.  "  No— that  is,  yes  ;  my  shav- 
ing water,  please." 

After  breakfast  the  landlady's  boy  of- 
fered to  take  me  in  his  donkey  cart  to  the 
birthplace  of  George  Eliot  for  five  shil- 
lings. He  explained  that  the  house  was 
just  seven  miles  north  ;  but  Balaam's  ex- 
press is  always  slow,  so  I  concluded  to 
walk.  At  Coventry  a  cab  owner  pro- 
posed to  show  me  the  house,  which  he 
declared  was  near  Kenilworth,  for  twelve 
shillings.  The  advantages  of  seeing  Ken- 
ilworth at  the  same  time  were  dwelt  upon 
at  great  length  by  cabby,  but  I  harkened 
not  to  the  voice  of  the  siren.  I  got  a 
good  lunch  at  the  hotel,  and  asked  the 
innkeeper  if  he  could  tell  me  where 
George  Eliot  was  born.  He  did  not 
10 


<3eorge  Eliot 


know,  but  said  he  could  show  me  a  house 
around  the  corner  where  a  family  of  Bliots 
lived. 

Then  I  walked  on  to  Nuneaton.  A 
charming  walk  it  was ;  past  quaint  old 
houses,  some  with  strawthatched  roofs, 
others  tiled — roses  clambering  over  the 
doors  and  flowering  hedge-rows  white 
with  hawthorn  flowers.  Occasionally  I 
met  a  farmer's  cart  drawn  by  one  of  those 
great,  fat,  gentle  shire  horses  that  George 
Eliot  has  described  so  well.  All  spoke  of 
peace  and  plenty,  quiet  and  rest.  The 
green  fields  and  the  flowers,  the  lark-song 
and  the  sunshine,  the  dipping  willows  by 
the  stream  and  the  arch  of  the  old  stone 
bridge  as  I  approached  the  village — all 
these  I  had  seen  and  known  and  felt  be- 
fore from  Mill  on  the  Floss. 

I  found  the  house  where  they  say  the 
novelist  was  born.  A  plain,  whitewashed 
stone  structure,  built  two  hundred  years 
ago ;  two  stories,  the  upper  chambers 
low,  with  gable  windows  ;  a  little  garden 
at  the  side  bright  with  flowers,  where  sweet 
ii 


Gbe  f>aunts  of 


marjoram  vied  with  onions  and  beets  ;  all 
spoke  of  humble  thrift  and  homely  cares. 
In  front  was  a  great  chestnut  tree,  and  in 
the  roadway  near  were  two  ancient  elms 
where  saucy  crows  were  building  a  nest. 
Here,  after  her  mother  died,  Mary  Ann 
Bvans  was  housekeeper.  Little  more 
than  a  child — tall,  timid,  and  far  from 
strong — she  cooked  and  scrubbed  and 
washed,  and  was  herself  the  mother  to 
brothers  and  sisters.  Her  father  was  a 
carpenter  by  trade  and  agent  for  a  rich 
land  owner.  He  was  a  stern  man — or- 
derly, earnest,  industrious,  studious.  On 
rides  about  the  country  he  would  take 
the  tall  hollow-eyed  girl  with  him,  and 
at  such  times  he  would  talk  to  her  of  the 
great  outside  world  where  wondrous 
things  were  done.  The  child  toiled  hard 
but  found  time  to  read  and  question,  and 
there  is  always  time  to  think.  Soon  she 
had  outgrown  some  of  her  good  father's 
beliefs,  and  this  grieved  him  greatly  ;  so 
much,  indeed,  that  her  extra  loving 
attention  to  his  needs,  in  a  hope  to  neu- 
12 


ecovQC  Bitot 


tralize  his  displeasure,  only  irritated  him 
the  more.  And  if  there  is  soft  subdued 
sadness  in  much  of  George  Eliot's  writing 
we  can  guess  the  reason.  The  onward 
and  upward  march  ever  means  sad  sepa- 
ration. 

When  Mary  Ann  was  blossoming  into 
womanhood  her  father  moved  over  near 
Coventry,  and  here  the  ambitious  girl 
first  found  companionship  in  her  in- 
tellectual desires.  Here  she  met  men 
and  women,  older  than  herself,  who  were 
animated,  earnest  thinkers.  They  read 
and  then  they  discussed,  and  then  they 
spoke  the  things  that  they  felt  were  true. 
Those  eight  years  at  Coventry  trans- 
formed the  awkward  country  girl  into  a 
woman  of  intellect  and  purpose.  She 
knew  somewhat  of  all  sciences,  all  phi- 
losophies, and  she  had  become  a  proficient 
scholar  in  German  and  French.  How 
did  she  acquire  this  knowledge  ?  How  is 
any  education  acquired  if  not  through 
effort  prompted  by  desire  ? 

She  had  already  translated  Strauss's 
13 


Gbe  t)aunt6  of 


Life  of  Jesus  in  a  manner  that  was  accept- 
able to  the  author,  when  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  came  to  Coventry  to  lecture. 
He  was  entertained  at  the  same  house 
where  Miss  Evans  was  stopping.  Her 
brilliant  conversation  pleased  him,  and 
when  she  questioned  the  wisdom  of  a 
certain  passage  in  one  of  his  essays  the 
gentle  philosopher  turned,  smiled,  and 
said  that  he  had  not  seen  it  in  that  light 
before  ;  perhaps  she  was  right. 

"  What  is  your  favorite  book  ?  "  asked 
Emerson. 

1 '  Rousseau' s  Confessions,  * '  answered 
Mary  instantly. 

It  was  Emerson's  favorite,  too  ;  but 
such  honesty  from  a  young  woman  !  It 
was  queer. 

Mr.  Emerson  never  forgot  Miss  Evans 
of  Coventry,  and  ten  years  after,  when 
a  zealous  reviewer  proclaimed  her  the 
greatest  novelist  in  England,  the  sage  of 
Concord  said  something  that  sounded 
like  "I  told  you  so." 

Miss  Evans  had  made  visits  to  London 
14 


(5C0XQC   Bitot 


from  time  to  time  with  her  Coventry 
friends.  When  twenty-eight  years  old, 
after  one  such  visit  to  London,  she  came 
back  to  the  country  tired  and  weary,  and 
wrote  this  most  womanly  wish  :  ' '  My  only 
ardent  desire  is  to  find  some  feminine  task 
to  discharge ;  some  possibility  of  devot- 
ing myself  to  some  one  and  making 
that  one  purely  and  calmly  happy." 

But  now  her  father  was  dead  and  her 
income  was  very  scanty.  She  did  trans- 
lating, and  tried  the  magazines  with 
articles  that  generally  came  back  respect- 
fully declined. 

Then  an  offer  came  as  sub-editor  of  the 
Westminster  Review.  It  was  steady 
work  and  plenty  of  it,  and  this  was  what 
she  desired.  She  went  to  London  and 
lived  in  the  household  of  her  employer, 
Mr.  Chapman.  Here  she  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  many  brilliant  people  : 
Carlyle,  and  his  "Jeannie  Welsh,"  the 
Martineaus,  Grote,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mill, 
Huxley,  Mazzini,  Louis  Blanc.  Besides 
these  were  two  young  men  who  must 
15 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


not  be  left  out  when  we  sum  up  the 
influences  that  evolved  this  woman's 
genius. 

She  was  attracted  to  Herbert  Spencer  at 
once.  He  was  about  her  age  and  then- 
admiration  for  each  other  was  mutual. 
Miss  Evans,  writing  to  a  friend  in  1852, 
says  :  "Spencer  is  kind,  he  is  delightful, 
and  I  always  feel  better  after  being  with 
him,  and  we  have  agreed  together  that 
there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  see 
each  other  as  often  as  we  wish."  And 
then  later  she  again  writes  :  "  The  bright 
side  of  my  life,  after  the  affection  for  my 
old  friends,  is  the  new  and  delightful 
friendship  which  I  have  found  in  Herbert 
Spencer.  We  see  each  other  every  day  and 
in  everything  we  enjoy  a  delightful  com- 
radeship. If  it  were  not  for  him  my  life 
would  be  singularly  arid." 

But  about  this  time  another  man  ap- 
peared on  the  scene,  and  were  it  not  for 
this  other  man,  who  was  introduced  to 
Miss  Evans  by  Spencer,  the  author  of 
Synthetic  Philosophy  might  not  now  be 
16 


(5C0VQC    BllOt 


spoken  of  in  the  biographical  dictionaries 
as  being  "  wedded  to  science." 

It  was  not  love  at  first  sight,  for  George 
Henry  Lewes  made  a  decidedly  unfavora- 
ble impression  on  Miss  Evans  at  their 
first  meeting.  He  was  small,  his  features 
were  insignificant,  he  had  whiskers  like 
an  anarchist  and  a  mouthful  of  crooked 
teeth  ;  his  personal  habits  were  far  from 
pleasant.  It  was  this  sort  of  thing,  Dick- 
ens said,  that  caused  his  first  wife  to 
desert  him  and  finally  drove  her  into 
insanity. 

But  Lewes  had  a  brilliant  mind.  He 
was  a  linguist,  a  scientist,  a  novelist,  a 
poet,  and  a  wit.  He  had  written  biogra- 
phy, philosophy,  and  a  play.  He  had 
been  a  journalist,  a  lecturer,  and  even  an 
actor.  Thackeray  declared  that  if  he 
should  see  Lewes  perched  on  a  white  ele- 
phant in  Piccadilly  he  should  not  be  in 
the  least  surprised. 

After  having  met  Miss  Evans  several 
times  Mr.  Lewes  saw  the  calm  depths 
of  her  mind  and  he  asked  her  to  correct 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


proofs  for  him.  She  did  so  and  discov- 
ered that  there  was  merit  in  his  work. 
She  corrected  more  proofs,  and  when  a 
woman  begins  to  assist  a  man  the  danger 
line  is  being  approached.  Close  observ- 
ers noted  that  a  change  was  coming  over 
the  bohemian  Lewes.  He  had  his  whisk- 
ers trimmed,  his  hair  was  combed,  and 
the  bright  yellow  necktie  had  been  dis- 
carded for  a  clean  one  of  modest  brown, 
and,  sometimes,  his  boots  were  blacked. 
In  July,  1854,  Mr.  Chapman  received  a  let- 
ter from  his  sub-editor  resigning  her  posi- 
tion, and  Miss  Evans  notified  some  of  her 
closest  friends  that  hereafter  she  wished 
to  be  considered  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lewes. 
She  was  then  in  her  thirty-sixth  year. 

The  couple  disappeared,  having  gone  to 
Germany. 

Many  people  were  shocked.  Some  said 
"we  knew  it  all  the  time,"  and  when 
Herbert  Spencer  was  informed  of  the  fact 
he  exclaimed  "  Goodness  me  !  "  and  said 
— nothing. 

After  six  months  spent  in  Weimar  and 
18 


George  Bitot 


other  literary  centres,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewes 
returned  to  England  and  began  house- 
keeping at  Richmond.  Any  one  who 
views  their  old  quarters  there  will  see 
how  very  plainly  and  economically  they 
were  forced  to  live.  But  they  worked 
hard,  and  at  this  time  the  future  novel- 
ist's desire  seemed  only  to  assist  her  hus- 
band. That  she  developed  the  manly 
side  of  his  nature  none  can  deny.  They 
were  very  happy,  these  two,  as  they 
wrote,  and  copied,  and  studied,  and 
toiled. 

Three  years  passed,  and  Mrs.  I^ewes 
wrote  to  a  friend  :  "I  am  very  happy ; 
happy  with  the  greatest  happiness  that 
life  can  give — the  complete  sympathy 
and  affection  of  a  man  whose  mind  stimu- 
lates mine  and  keeps  up  in  me  a  whole- 
some activity." 

Mr.  I^ewes  knew  the  greatness  of  his 
helpmeet.  She  herself  did  not.  He 
urged  her  to  write  a  story  ;  she  hesitated, 
and  at  last  attempted  it.  They  read  the 
first  chapter  together  and  cried  over  it. 
19 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


Then  she  wrote  more  and  always  read 
her  husband  the  chapters  as  they  were 
turned  off.  He  corrected,  encouraged, 
and  found  a  publisher.  But  why  should 
I  tell  about  it  here?  It's  all  in  the 
Brittanica—'hoY?  the  gentle  beauty  and 
sympathetic  insight  of  her  work  touched 
the  hearts  of  great  and  lowly  alike,  and 
of  how  riches  began  flowing  in  upon  her. 
For  one  book  she  received  $40,000,  and 
her  income  after  fortune  smiled  upon  her 
was  never  less  than  $10,000  a  year. 

Lewes  was  her  secretary,  her  protector, 
her  slave,  and  her  inspiration.  He  kept 
at  bay  the  public  that  would  steal  her 
time,  and  put  out  of  her  reach,  at  her 
request,  all  reviews,  good  or  bad,  and 
shielded  her  from  the  interviewer,  the 
curiosity  seeker,  and  the  greedy  finan- 
cier. 

The  reason  why  she  at  first  wrote  un- 
der a  nom  de  plume  is  plain.  To  the 
great  wallowing  world  she  was  neither 
Miss  Evans  nor  Mrs.  Lewes,  so  she 
dropped  both  names  as  far  as  title  pages 


(5C0VQC   Bitot 


were  concerned  and  used  a  man's  name 
instead — hoping  better  to  elude  the  pack. 

When  Adam  Bede  came  out  a  resident 
of  Nuneaton  purchased  a  copy  and  at 
once  discovered  local  ear-marks.  The 
scenes  described,  the  flowers,  the  stone 
walls,  the  bridges,  the  barns,  the  people 
— all  was  Nuneaton.  Who  wrote  it  ?  No 
one  knew,  but  it  was  surely  some  one  in 
Nuneaton.  So  they  picked  out  a  Mr. 
Liggins,  a  solemn-faced  preacher,  who 
was  always  about  to  do  something  great, 
and  they  said  "  Liggins."  Soon  all  Lon- 
don said  "Liggins."  As  for  Liggins, 
he  looked  wise  and  smiled  knowingly. 
Then  articles  began  to  appear  in  the 
periodicals  purporting  to  have  been 
written  by  the  author  of  Adam  Bede. 
A  book  came  out  called  Adam  Bede,  Jr., 
and  to  protect  her  publisher,  the  public, 
and  herself,  George  Eliot  had  to  reveal 
her  identity. 

Many  men  have  written  good  books 
and  never  tasted  fame  ;  but  few,  like  Lig- 
gins of  Nuneaton,  have  become  famous 
21 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


by  doing  nothing.  It  only  proves  that 
some  things  can  be  done  as  well  as 
others.  This  breed  of  men  has  long 
dwelt  in  Warwickshire ;  Shakespeare 
had  them  in  mind  when  he  wrote  : 
"  There  be  men  who  do  a  wilful  stillness 
entertain  with  purpose  to  be  dressed  in 
an  opinion  of  wisdom,  gravity,  and  pro- 
found conceit    .     .    .     " 

Lord  Acton  in  an  able  article  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century  makes  this  state- 
ment : 

"  George  Eliot  paid  high  for  happiness 
with  Lewes.  She  forfeited  freedom  of 
speech,  the  first  place  among  English 
women,  and  a  tomb  in  Westminster 
Abbey." 

The  original  dedication  in  Adam 
Bede  reads  thus :  "To  my  dear  hus- 
band, George  Henry  Lewes,  I  give  the 
manuscript  of  a  work  which  would  never 
have  been  written  but  for  the  happiness 
which  his  love  has  conferred  on  my  life." 

Lord  Acton  of  course  assumes  that  this 
book  would  have  been  written,  dedication 
22 


(SCOVQC    BltOt 


and  all,  just  the  same  had  Miss  Evans 
never  met  Mr.  Lewes. 

Once  there  was  a  child  called  Romola. 
She  said  to  her  father  one  day,  as  she  sat 
on  his  knee  :  "  Papa,  who  would  take  care 
of  me — give  me  my  bath  and  put  me  to 
bed  nights — if  you  had  never  happened  to 
meet  Mamma?" 

The  days  I  spent  in  Warwickshire  were 
very  pleasant.  The  serene  beauty  of  the 
country  and  the  kindly  courtesy  of  the 
people  impressed  me  greatly.  Having 
seen  the  scenes  of  George  Eliot's  child- 
hood I  desired  to  view  the  place  where 
her  last  days  were  spent.  It  was  a  fine 
May-day  when  I  took  the  little  steamer 
from  London  Bridge  for  Chelsea. 

A  bird  call  from  the  dingy  brick  build- 
ing where  Turner  died  and  two  blocks 
from  the  old  home  of  Carlyle  is  Cheyne 
Walk — a  broad  avenue  facing  the  river. 
The  houses  are  old,  but  they  have  a  look 
of  gracious  gentility  that  speak  of  ease 
and   plenty.     High  iron    fences    are   in 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


front,  but  they  do  not  shut  off  from  view 
the  climbing  clematis  and  clusters  of 
roses  that  gather  over  the  windows  and 
doors. 

I  stood  at  the  gate  of  No.  4  Cheyne 
Walk  and  admired  the  pretty  flowers, 
planted  in  such  artistic  carelessness  as  to 
beds  and  rows,  then  I  rang  the  bell ;  an 
old  pull-out  affair  with  polished  knob. 

Presently  a  butler  opened  the  door — a 
pompous,  tall  and  awful  butler,  in  serious 
black  and  side  whiskers.  He  approached ; 
came  down  the  walk  swinging  a  bunch  of 
keys,  looking  me  over  as  he  came  to  see 
what  sort  of  wares  I  had  to  sell. 

"  Did  George  Eliot  live  here  ?  "  I  asked 
through  the  bars. 

"Mrs.  Cross  lived  'ere  and  died  'ere, 
sir,"  came  the  solemn  and  rebuking  an- 
swer. 

"  I  mean  Mrs.  Cross,"  I  added  meekly  ; 
"  I  only  wished  to  see  the  little  garden 
where  she  worked." 

Jeemes  was  softened.  As  he  unlocked 
the  gate  he  said  :  "  We  'ave  many  wisit- 
24 


George  Bitot 


ers,  sir  ;  a  great  bother,  sir  ;  still,  I  always 
knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees  one. 
P'r'aps  you  would  like  to  see  the  'ouse, 
too,  sir.  The  missus  does  not  like  it 
much  but  I  will  take  'er  your  card,  sir." 

I  gave  him  the  card  and  slipped  a  shil- 
ling into  his  hand  as  he  gave  me  a  seat  in 
the  hallway. 

He  disappeared  upstairs  and  soon  re- 
turned with  the  pleasing  information 
that  I  was  to  be  shown  the  whole  house 
and  garden.  So  I  pardoned  him  the  myth 
about  the  missus,  happening  to  know 
that  at  that  particular  moment  she  was  at 
Brighton,  sixty  miles  away. 

A  goodly,  comfortable  house,  four 
stories,  well  kept,  and  much  fine  old 
carved  oak  in  the  dining-room  and  hall- 
ways ;  fantastic  ancient  balusters,  and  a 
peculiar  bay-window  in  the  second-story 
rear  that  looked  out  over  the  little  gar- 
den. Off  to  the  north  could  be  seen  the 
green  of  Kensington  Gardens  and  wavy 
suggestions  of  Hyde  Park.  This  was 
George  Elliot's  workshop.  There  was  a 
25 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and  three 
low  book-cases  with  pretty  ornaments 
above.  In  the  bay-window  was  the  most 
conspicuous  object  in  the  room — a  fine 
marble  bust  of  Gcethe.  This,  I  was  as- 
sured, had  been  the  property  of  Mrs. 
Cross,  as  well  as  all  the  books  and  furni- 
ture in  the  room.  In  one  corner  was  a 
revolving  case  containing  a  set  of  the 
Century  Dictionary,  which  Jeemes  as- 
sured me  had  been  purchased  by  Mr. 
Cross  as  a  present  for  his  wife  a  short 
time  before  she  died.  This  caused  my 
faith  to  waver  a  trifle  and  put  to  flight 
a  fine  bit  of  literary  frenzy  that  might 
have  found  form  soon  in  a  sonnet. 

In  the  front  parlor  I  saw  a  portrait  of 
the  former  occupant  that  showed  "  the 
face  that  looked  like  ahorse."  But  that 
is  better  than  to  have  the  face  of  any 
other  animal  of  which  I  know.  Surely 
one  would  not  want  to  look  like  a  dog  ! 
Shakespeare  hated  dogs,  but  spoke  forty- 
eight  times  in  his  plays  in  terms  of  re- 
spect and  affection  for  a  horse.  Who 
26 


<5eorge  jsiict 


would  not  resent  the  imputation  that 
one's  face  was  like  that  of  a  sheep  or  a 
goat  or  an  ox,  and  much  gore  has  been 
shed  because  men  have  referred  to  other 
men  as  asses,  but  a  horse !  God  bless 
you,  yes. 

No  one  has  ever  accused  George  Eliot 
of  being  handsome,  but  this  portrait  tells 
of  a  woman  of  fifty :  calm,  gentle,  and 
the  strong  features  speak  of  a  soul  in 
which  to  confide. 

At  Highgate,  by  the  side  of  the  grave 
of  Lewes,  rests  the  dust  of  this  great  and 
loving  woman.  As  the  pilgrim  enters 
that  famous  old  cemetery  the  first  impos- 
ing monument  seen  is  a  pyramid  of  rare, 
costly  porphyry.  As  you  draw  near,  you 
read  this  inscription  : 

To  the  memory  of 

ANN  J3WSON  CRISP, 

Who  departed  this  life 

Deeply  lamented  Jan.  20,  1889. 

Also, 

Her  dog,  Emperor. 

Beneath  these  tender  lines  is  a  bas- 

27 


George  Bitot 


relief  of  as  vicious  a  looking  cur  as  ever 
evaded  the  dog  tax. 

Continuing  up  the  avenue,  past  this 
monument  just  noted,  the  kind  old  gar- 
dener will  show  you  another  that  stands 
amid  others  much  more  pretentious.  A 
small  gray  granite  column,  and  on  it, 
carved  in  small  letters,  you  read  : 

"  Of  those   immortal  dead  who   live  again  in 

minds  made  better  by  their  presence." 

Here  rests  the  body  of 

"  GEORGE  EIJOT," 

(MARY  ANN  CROSS), 

Born  22  November,  1819. 
Died  22  December,  1880. 


23 


"I  •  <X\L 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


29 


One  comfort  is  that  great  men  taken  up  in  any 
way  are  profitable  company.  We  cannot  look, 
however  imperfectly,  upon  a  great  man  without 
gaining  something  by  it.  He  is  the  living  foun- 
tain of  life,  which  it  is  pleasant  to  be  near.  On 
any  terms  whatsoever  you  will  not  grudge  to 
wander  in  his  neighborhood  for  a  while. 

Heroes  and  Hero-  Worship, 


30 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


ON  my  way  to  Dumfries  I  stopped 
over   night  at   Gretna   Green, 
which,  as  all  fair  maidens  know, 
is  in  Scotland  just  over  the  border  from 
England. 

To  my  delight  I  found  that  the  com- 
ing of  runaway  couples  to  Gretna  Green 
was  not  entirely  a  matter  of  the  past, 
for  the  very  evening  I  arrived  a  blushing 
pair  came  to  the  inn  and  inquired  for  a 
1 '  meenister.  • '  The  ladye  faire  was  a  little 
stout  and  the  worthy  swain  several  years 
older  than  my  fancy  might  have  wished, 
but  still  I  did  not  complain.  The  land- 
lord's boy  was  despatched  to  the  rectory 
around  the  corner  and  soon  returned  with 
3i 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


the  reverend  gentleman.  I  was  an  unin- 
vited guest  in  the  little  parlor,  but  no  one 
observed  that  my  wedding  garment  was 
only  a  cycling  costume,  and  I  was  not 
challenged. 

After  the  ceremony,  the  several  other 
witnesses  filed  past  the  happy  couple, 
congratulating  them  and  kissing  the  bride. 
I  did  likewise,  and  was  greeted  with  a  re- 
sounding smack  which  surprised  me  a  bit, 
but  I  managed  to  ask  :  "  Did  you  run 
away  ?  " 

"  Noo,  "  said  the  groom,  "  noo,her  was 
a  widdie — we  just  coom  over  fram  Bccle- 
fechan" — then  lowering  his  voice  to  a 
confidential  whisper — "  We'r  goin'  baack 
on  the  morrow.  It 's  cheaper  thaan  to 
ha'  a  big,  spread  weddinV 

This  answer  banished  all  tender  senti- 
ment from  me  and  made  useless  my  plans 
for  a  dainty  love  story,  but  I  seized  upon 
the  name  of  the  place  from  whence  they 
came : 

"  Bcclefechan  !     Bcclefechan  !     why 
that's  where  Carlyle  was  born  !" 
32 


Gbomas  Garble 


"  Aye,  sir,  and  he  's  buried  there — a 
great  mon  he  was — but  an  infideel." 

Ten  miles  beyond  Gretna  Green  is 
Bcclefechan.  A  little  village  of  stucco 
houses  all  stretched  out  on  one  street. 
Plain,  homely,  rocky,  and  unromantic  is 
the  country  round  about,  and  plain, 
homely,  and  unromantic  is  the  little 
house  where  Carlyle  was  born.  The 
place  is  shown  the  visitor  by  a  good  old 
dame  who  takes  one  from  room  to  room, 
giving  a  little  lecture  meanwhile  in  a 
mixture  of  Gaelic  and  English  which  was 
quite  beyond  my  ken.  Several  relics  of 
interest  are  shown,  and  although  the 
house  is  almost,  precisely  like  all  others 
in  the  vicinity,  imagination  throws  round 
it  all  a  roseate  wreath  of  fancies. 

It  has  been  left  on  record  that  up  to  the 
year  when  Carlyle  was  married,  his  "  most 
pleasurable  times  were  those  when  he  en- 
joyed a  quiet  pipe  with  his  mother." 

To  few  men  indeed  is  this  felicity 
vouchsafed.  But  for  those  who  have 
eaten  oatmeal  porridge  in  the  wayside  cot- 
33 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


tages  of  bonny  Scotland,  or  who  love  to 
linger  over  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 
there  is  a  touch  of  tender  pathos  in  the 
picture.  The  stone  floor,  the  bare  white- 
washed walls,  the  peat  smouldering  on  the 
hearth,  sending  out  long  fitful  streaks, 
that  dance  among  the  rafters  overhead, 
and  the  mother  and  son  sitting  there 
watching  the  coals — silent.  The  woman 
takes  a  small  twig  from  a  bundle  of  sticks, 
reaches  over,  lights  it,  applies  it  to  her 
pipe,  takes  a  few  whiffs  and  passes  the 
light  to  her  son.  Then  they  talk  in  low 
earnest  tones  of  man's  duty  to  man  and 
man's  duty  to  God. 

And  it  was  this  mother  who  first  ap- 
plied the  spark  that  fired  Carlyle's  ambi- 
tion ;  it  was  from  her  that  he  got  the  germ 
of  those  talents  which  have  made  his 
name  illustrious. 

Yet  this  woman  could  barely  read  and 
did  not  learn  to  write  until  her  first-born 
had  gone  away  from  the  home  nest. 
Then  it  was  that  she  sharpened  a  gray 
goose  quill  and  labored  long  and  pa- 
34 


Gbomas  Garble 


tiently  practicing  with  this  instrument, 
(said  to  be  mightier  than  the  sword,)  and 
with  ink  she  herself  had  mixed — all  that 
she  might  write  a  letter  to  her  boy  ;  and 
how  sweetly,  tenderly  homely  and  lov- 
ing are  these  letters  as  we  read  them  to- 
day ! 

James  Carlyle  with  his  own  hands  built, 
in  1790,  this  house  at  Bcclefechan.  The 
same  year  he  married  an  excellent  wom- 
an, a  second  cousin,  by  name  Janet  Car- 
lyle. She  lived  but  a  year.  The  poor 
husband  was  heartbroken  and  declared, 
as  many  men  under  like  conditions  had 
done  before  and  have  done  since,  that  his 
sorrow  was  inconsolable.  And  he  vowed 
that  he  would  walk  through  life  and 
down  to  his  death  alone. 

But  it  is  a  matter  for  congratulation 
that  he  broke  his  vow.  In  two  years  he 
married  Margaret  Aitken — a  serving  wom- 
an. She  bore  nine  children.  Thomas  was 
the  eldest  and  the  only  one  who  proved 
recreant  to  the  religious  faith  of  his 
fathers. 

35 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


One  of  the  brothers  moved  to  Shia- 
wassee County,  Michigan,  where  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  calling  on  him,  some  years 
ago.  A  hard-headed  man,  he  was :  sensi- 
ble, earnest,  honest,  with  a  stubby  beard 
and  a  rich  brogue.  He  held  the  office  of 
school  trustee,  also  that  of  pound  master, 
and  I  was  told  that  he  served  his  town- 
ship loyally  and  well. 

This  worthy  man  looked  with  small 
favor  on  the  literary  pretensions  of  his 
brother  Tammas,  and  twice  wrote  him 
long  letters  expostulating  with  him  on 
his  religious  vagaries.  "  I  knew  no  good 
could  come  of  it,"  sorrowfully  said  he, 
and  so  I  left  him. 

But  I  inquired  of  several  of  the  neigh- 
bors what  they  thought  of  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  and  I  found  that  they  did  not  think 
of  Thomas  Carlyle  at  all.  And  I  mounted 
my  beast  and  rode  away. 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  educated  for  the 

Kirk  and  it  was  a  cause  of  much  sorrow 

to  his  parents  that  he  could  not  accept 

its  beliefs.    He  has  been  spoken  of  as 

36 


Gbomas  Garble 


England's  chief  philosopher,  yet  he  sub- 
scribed to  no  creed,  nor  did  he  formulate 
one.  However,  in  Latter  Day  Pamphlets 
he  partially  prepares  a  catechism  for  a  part 
of  the  brute  creation.  He  supposes  that 
all  swine  of  superior  logical  powers  have 
a  "  belief,"  and  as  they  are  unable  to  ex- 
press it  he  essays  the  task  for  them.  The 
following  are  a  few  of  the  postulates  in 
this  creed  of  The  Brotherhood  of  Latter- 
Day  Swine  : 

"  Question.     Who  made  the  Pig  ? 

"Answer.     The  Pork-Butcher. 

"  Question.  What  is  the  Whole  Duty 
of  Pigs  ? 

"Answer.  It  is  the  mission  of  Univer- 
sal Pighood  ;  and  the  duty  of  all  Pigs,  at 
all  times,  is  to  diminish  the  quantity  of  at- 
tainable swill  and  increase  the  unattaina- 
ble.   This  is  the  Whole  Duty  of  Pigs. 

"  Question.    What  is  Pig  Poetry  ? 

"  Answer.    It  is  the  universal  recogni- 
tion of  Pig's  wash  and  ground  barley,  and 
the  felicity  of  Pigs  whose  trough  has  been 
set  in  order  and  who  have  enough. 
37 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


"Question.  What  is  justice  in  Pig- 
dom  ? 

"Answer.  It  is  the  sentiment  in  Pig 
nature  sometimes  called  revenge,  indig- 
nation, etc.,  which  if  one  Pig  provoke 
another  comes  out  in  more  or  less  de- 
structive manner  ;  hence  laws  are  neces- 
sary— amazing  quantities  of  laws — defin- 
ing what  Pigs  shall  not  do. 

"  Question.  What  do  you  mean  by 
equity  ? 

"Answer.  Equity  consists  in  getting 
your  share  from  the  Universal  Swine- 
Trough,  and  part  of  another's. 

"Question.  What  is  meant  by  'your 
share '  ? 

"Answer.  My  share  is  getting  what- 
ever I  can  contrive  to  seize  without  being 
made  up  into  Side-meat." 

I  have  slightly  abridged  this  little  ex- 
tract and  inserted  it  here  to  show  the 
sympathy  which  Mr.  Carlyle  had  for  the 
dumb  brute. 

One  of  America's  great  men,  in  a 
speech  delivered  not  long  since,  said : 
38 


Gbomas  Carlgle 


M  From  Scotch  manners,  Scotch  religion, 
and  Scotch  whiskey,  good  Lord  deliver 
us." 

My  experience  with  these  three  articles 
has  been  somewhat  limited ;  but  Scotch 
manners  remind  me  of  chestnut  burrs — 
not  handsome  without,  but  good  within. 
For  when  you  have  gotten  beyond  the 
rough  exterior  of  Sandy  you  generally 
find  a  heart  warm,  tender,  and  generous. 

Scotch  religion  is  only  another  chest- 
nut burr,  but  then  you  need  not  eat  the 
shuck  if  you  fear  it  will  not  agree  with 
your  inward  state.  Nevertheless,  if  the 
example  of  royalty  is  of  value,  the  fact 
can  be  stated  that  Victoria,  Queen  of  Great 
Britain  and  Empress  of  India,  is  a  Pres- 
byterian. That  is,  she  is  a  Presbyterian 
about  one  half  the  time — when  she  is  in 
Scotland,  for  she  is  the  head  of  the  Scot- 
tish Kirk.  When  in  England  of  course 
she  is  an  Episcopalian.  We  have  often 
been  told  that  religion  is  largely  a  matter 
of  geography,  and  here  is  a  bit  of  some- 
thing that  looks  like  proof. 
39 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


Of  Scotch  whiskey  I  am  not  compe- 
tent to  speak,  so  that  subject  must  be  left 
to  the  experts.  But  a  Kentucky  colonel 
at  my  elbow  declares  that  it  cannot  be 
compared  with  the  Blue  Grass  article  ; 
though  I  trust  that  no  one  will  be  preju- 
diced against  it  on  that  account. 

Scotch  intellect,  however,  is  worthy  of 
our  serious  consideration.  It  is  a  bold, 
rocky  headland,  standing  out  into  the 
tossing  sea  of  the  Unknown.  Assertive? 
Yes.  Stubborn?  Most  surely.  Proud? 
By  all  means.  Twice  as  many  pilgrims 
visit  the  grave  of  Burns  as  that  of  Shakes- 
peare. Buckle  declares  "  Adam  Smith's 
Wealth  of  Nations  has  had  a  greater  in- 
fluence on  civilization  than  any  book 
ever  writ — save  none  "  ;  and  the  average 
Scotchman  knows  his  Carlyle  a  deal  bet- 
ter than  the  average  American  does  his 
Emerson  :  in  fact  four  times  as  many  of 
Carlyle's  books  have  been  printed. 

When  Carlyle  took  time  to  bring  the 
ponderous  machinery  of  his  intellect  to 
bear  on  a  theme,  he  saw  it  through  and 
40 


tTbomas  Carlgle 


through.  The  vividness  of  his  imagina- 
tion gives  us  a  true  insight  into  times 
long  since  gone  by  ;  it  shows  virtue  her 
own  feature,  vice  her  own  image,  and 
the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his 
form  and  pressure.  In  history  he  goes 
beyond  the  political  and  conventional — 
showing  us  the  thought,  the  hope,  the 
fear,  the  passion  of  the  soul. 

His  was  the  masculine  mind.  The 
divination  and  subtle  intuitions  which  are 
to  be  found  scattered  through  his  pages, 
like  violets  growing  among  the  rank  swale 
of  the  prairies,  all  these  sweet  odorous 
things  came  from  his  wife.  She  gave  him 
her  best  thought  and  he  greedily  absorbed 
and  unconsciously  wrote  it  down  as  his 
own. 

There  are  those  who  blame  and  berate  : 
volumes  have  been  written  to  show  the 
inconsiderateness  of  this  man  toward  the 
gentle  lady  who  was  his  intellectual  com- 
rade. But  they  know  not  life  who  do 
this  thing. 

It  is  a  fact  that  Carlyle  never  rushed  to 
41 


XLbc  Ibaunts  of 


pick  up  Jeannie's  handkerchief.  I  admit 
that  he  could  not  bow  gracefully  ;  that 
he  could  not  sing  tenor,  nor  waltz,  nor 
tell  funny  stories,  nor  play  the  mando- 
lin ;  and  if  I  had  been  his  neighbor  I 
would  not  have  attempted  to  teach  him 
any  of  these  accomplishments. 

Once  he  took  his  wife  to  the  theatre ; 
and  after  the  performance  he  accidentally 
became  separated  from  her  in  the  crowd 
and  trudged  off  home  alone  and  went  to 
bed  forgetting  all  about  her,  but  even  for 
this  I  do  not  indict  him.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
never  upbraided  him  for  this  forgetful- 
ness,  neither  did  she  relate  the  incident  to 
anyone,  and  for  these  things  I  to  her 
now  reverently  lift  my  hat. 

Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  had  capacity  for 
pain,  as  it  seems  all  great  souls  have. 
She  suffered — but  then  suffering  is  not  all 
suffering     and    pain   is    not    all    pain. 

Life  is  often  dark,  but  then  there  are 

rifts  in  the  clouds  when  we  behold  the 

glorious  deep  blue  of  the  sky.     Not  a 

day  passes  but  that  the  birds  sing  in  the 

42 


Gbomae  Garlgle 


branches,  and  the  tree  tops  poise  back- 
ward and  forward  in  restful,  rhythmic  har- 
mony, and  never  an  hour  goes  by  but 
that  hope  bears  us  up  on  her  wings  as  the 
eagle  does  her  young.  And  ever  just  be- 
fore the  year  dies  and  the  frost  comes,  the 
leaves  take  on  a  gorgeous  hue  and  the 
color  of  the  flowers  then  puts  to  shame 
for  brilliancy  all  the  plainer  petals  of 
spring  time. 

And  I  know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  were 
happy,  so  happy,  at  times,  that  they 
laughed  and  cried  for  joy.  Jeannie  gave 
all  and  she  saw  her  best  thought  used — 
carried  further,  written  out  and  given 
to  the  world  as  that  of  another,  but  she 
uttered  no  protest. 

Xantippe  lives  in  history  only  because 
she  sought  to  worry  a  great  philosopher ; 
we  remember  the  daughter  of  Herodias 
because  she  demanded  the  head  (not 
the  heart)  of  a  good  man  ;  Goneril  and 
Regan  because  they  trod  upon  the  with- 
ered soul  of  their  sire;  Lady  Macbeth 
because  she  lured  her  liege  to  murder ; 
43 


Gbe  f)aunt8  of 


Charlotte  Corday  for  her  dagger  thrust ; 
I^Ticretia  Borgia  for  her  poison  ;  Sapphira 
for  her  untruth  ;  Jael  because  she  pierced 
the  brain  of  Sisera  with  a  rusty  nail,  (in- 
stead of  an  idea)  ;  Delilah  for  the  reason 
that  she  deprived  Samson  of  his  source 
of  strength  ;  and  in  the  Westminster  Re- 
view for  May,  1894,  Ouida  makes  the  flat 
statement  that  for  every  man  of  genius 
who  has  been  helped  by  a  woman  ten 
have  been  dragged  down.  But  Jeannie 
Welsh  Carlyle  lives  in  the  hearts  of  all 
who  reverence  the  sweet,  the  gentle,  the 
patient,  the  earnest,  the  loving  spirit  of 
the  womanly  woman  :  lives  because  she 
ministered  to  the  needs  of  a  great  man. 

She  was  ever  a  frail  body.  Several 
long  illnesses  kept  her  to  her  bed  for 
weeks,  but  she  recovered  from  these, 
even  in  spite  of  the  doctors  who  thor- 
oughly impressed  both  herself  and  her 
husband  with  the  thought  of  her  frailty. 

On  April  twenty-first,  1866,  she  called 
her  carriage,  as  was  her  custom,  and  di- 
rected the  driver  to  go  through  the  park. 
44 


Gboma5  Carole 


She  carried  a  book  in  her  hands,  and 
smiled  a  greeting  to  a  friend  as  the 
brougham  moved  away  from  the  little 
street  where  they  lived.  The  driver  drove 
slowly — drove  for  an  hour — two.  He 
got  down  from  his  box  to  receive  the 
orders  of  his  mistress,  touched  his  hat 
as  he  opened  the  carriage  door,  but  no 
kindly  eyes  looked  into  his.  She  sat  back 
in  the  corner  as  if  resting ;  the  shapely 
head  a  little  thrown  forward,  the  book 
held  gently  in  the  delicate  hands,  but 
the  fingers  were  cold  and  stiff— Jeannie 
Welsh  was  dead — and  Thomas  Carlyle 
was  alone. 


45 


II. 


ALONG  the  Thames,  at  Chelsea,  op- 
posite the  rows  of  quiet  and  well- 
kept  houses  of  Cheyne  Walk,  is 
the  "Embankment."  A  parkway  it  is 
of  narrow  green  with  gravelled  walks, 
bushes,  and  trees,  that  here  and  there 
grow  lush  and  lusty  as  if  to  hide  the  un- 
sightly river  from  the  good  people  who 
live  across  the  street. 

Following  this  pleasant  bit  of  breathing 
space,  with  its  walks  that  wind  in  and  out 
among  the  bushes,  one  comes  unexpect- 
edly upon  a  bronze  statue.  You  need 
not  read  the  inscription  :  a  glance  at  that 
shaggy  head,  the  grave,  sober,  earnest 
look,  and  you  exclaim  under  your  breath, 
"Carlyle!" 

In  this  statue  the  artist  has  caught  with 
rare  skill  the  look  of  reverie  and  repose. 
One  can  imagine  that  on  a  certain  night, 
46 


Gbomas  Garlgle 


as  the  mists  and  shadows  of  evening 
were  gathering  along  the  dark  river,  that 
the  gaunt  form,  wrapped  in  its  accus- 
tomed cloak,  came  stalking  down  the 
little  street  to  the  park,  just  as  he  did 
thousands  of  times,  and  taking  his  seat 
in  the  big  chair  fell  asleep.  In  the 
morning  the  children  that  came  to  play- 
along  the  river  found  the  form  in  cold, 
enduring  bronze. 

At  the  play  we  have  seen  the  marble 
transformed  by  love  into  beauteous  life. 
How  much  easier  the  reverse — here  where 
souls  stay  only  a  day  ! 

Cheyne  Row  is  a  little  alley-like  street, 
running  only  a  block,  with  fifteen  houses 
on  one  side,  and  twelve  on  the  other. 
These  houses  are  all  brick  and  built 
right  up  to  the  sidewalk.  On  the  north 
side  they  are  all  in  one  block,  and  one  at 
first  sees  no  touch  of  individuality  in  any 
of  them. 

They  are  old,  and  solid,  and  plain — 
built  for  revenue  only.  On  closer  view  I 
thought  one  or  two  had  been  painted,  and 
47 


XLbc  Ibaunts  of 


on  one  there  was  a  cornice  that  set  it  off 
from  the  rest.  As  I  stood  on  the  opposite 
side  and  looked  at  this  row  of  houses,  I 
observed  that  Number  Five  was  the  din- 
giest and  plainest  of  them  all.  For  there 
were  dark  shutters  instead  of  blinds,  and 
these  shutters  were  closed,  all  save  one 
rebel  that  swung  and  creaked  in  the 
breeze.  Over  the  doorway,  sparrows 
had  made  their  nests  and  were  fighting 
and  scolding.  Swallows  hovered  above 
the  chimney ;  dust,  cobwebs,  neglect 
were  all  about.  And  as  I  looked  there 
came  to  me  the  words  of  Ursa  Thomas  : 

"  Brief,  brawling  day,  with  its  noisy 
phantoms,  its  paper  crowns,  tinsel  gilt,  is 
gone  ;  and  divine,  everlasting  night,  with 
her  star  diadems,  with  her  silences  and 
her  verities,  is  come." 

Here  walked  Thomas  and  Jeannie  one 
fair  May  morning  in  1834.  Thomas  was 
thirty-nine,  tall  and  swarthy,  strong  ; 
with  set  mouth  and  three  wrinkles  on  his 
forehead  that  told  of  care  and  dyspepsia. 
Jeannie  was  younger ;  her  face  winsome, 
48 


Gbomas  Garlgle 


just  a  trifle  anxious,  with  luminous,  gen- 
tle eyes,  suggestive  of  patience,  truth, 
and  loyalty.  They  looked  like  country 
folks,  did  these  two.  They  examined  the 
surroundings,  consulted  together  —  the 
sixty  pounds  rent  a  year  seemed  very 
high  !  But  they  took  the  house,  and 
T.  Carlyle,  son  of  James  Carlyle,  stone- 
mason, paid  rent  for  it  every  month  for 
half  a  century,  lacking  three  years. 

I  walked  across  the  street  and  read  the 
inscription  on  the  marble  tablet  inserted 
in  front  of  the  house  above  the  lower 
windows.  It  informs  the  stranger  that 
Thomas  Carlyle  lived  here  from  1834  to 
1881,  and  that  the  tablet  was  erected  by 
the  Carlyle  Society  of  London. 

I  ascended  the  stone  steps  and  scraped 
my  boots  on  the  well-worn  scraper,  made 
long,  long  ago  by  a  blacksmith  who  is 
now  dust,  and  who  must  have  been  a  very 
awkward  mechanic,  for  I  saw  where  he 
made  a  misstroke  with  his  hammer,  proba- 
bly as  he  discussed  theology  with  a  caller. 
Then  I  rang  the  bell  and  plied  the 
49 


Gbe  fjaunts  of 


knocker  and  waited  there  on  the  steps 
for  Jeannie  Welsh  to  come  bid  me  wel- 
come, just  as  she  did  Emerson  when  he, 
too,  used  the  scraper  and  plied  the 
knocker  and  stood  where  I  did  then. 

And  my  knock  was  answered — an- 
swered by  a  very  sour  and  peevish  wo- 
man next  door,  who  thrust  her  head  out 
of  the  window,  and  exclaimed  in  a  shrill 
voice : 

"  Look  'ere,  sir,  you  might  as  well  go 
rap  on  the  curbstone,  don't  you  know ; 
there 's  nobody  livin'  there,  sir,  don't  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  madam,  that  is  why  I  knocked  !" 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  if  you  use 
your  heyes  you  '11  see  there 's  nobody 
livin'  there,  don't  you  know  !  " 

"I  knocked  lest  offence  be  given. 
How  can  I  get  in?" 

"You  might  go  in  through  the  key- 
hole, sir,  or  down  the  chimney.  You 
seem  to  be  a  little  daft,  sir,  don't  you 
know.  But  if  you  must  get  in  perhaps 
it  would  be  as  well  to  go  over  to  Mrs. 
50 


Gbomas  Garble 


Brown's  and  brang  the  key,"  and  she 
slammed  down  the  window. 

Across  the  street  Mrs.  Brown's  sign 
smiled  at  me. 

Mrs.  Brown  keeps  a  little  grocery  and 
bake  shop  and  was  very  willing  to  show 
me  the  house.  She  fumbled  in  a  black 
bag  for  the  keys,  all  the  time  telling  me 
of  three  Americans  who  came  last  week 
to  see  Carlyle's  house,  and  "as  how" 
they  each  gave  her  a  shilling.  I  took  the 
hint. 

"  Only  Americans  care  now  for  Mr. 
Carlyle,"  plaintively  added  the  old  lady 
as  she  fished  out  the  keys,  "  soon  we  will 
all  be  forgot." 

We  walked  across  the  street  and  after 
several  ineffectual  attempts  the  rusty  lock 
was  made  to  turn.  I  entered.  Cold,  bare 
and  bleak  was  the  sight  of  those  empty 
rooms.  The  old  lady  had  a  touch  of 
rheumatism,  so  she  waited  for  me  on  the 
door  step  as  I  climbed  the  stairs  to  the 
third  floor.  The  noise-proof  back  room 
where  The  French  Revolution  was  writ, 
5i 


Zbc  1baunt6  ot 


twice  over,  was  so  dark  that  I  had  to 
grope  my  way  across  to  the  window.  The 
sash  stuck  and  seemed  to  have  a  will  of 
its  own,  like  him  who  so  often  had  raised 
it.  But  at  last  it  gave  way  and  I  flung 
wide  the  shutter  and  looked  down  at  the 
little  arbor  where  Teufelsdrockh  sat  so 
often  and  wooed  wisdom  with  the  weed 
brought  from  Virginia. 

Then  I  stood  before  the  fire-place, 
where  he  of  the  Eternities  had  so  often 
sat  and  watched  the  flickering  embers. 
Here  he  lived  in  his  loneliness  and  cursed 
curses  that  were  prayers,  and  here  for  near 
five  decades  he  read  and  thought  and 
dreamed  and  wrote.  Here  the  spirits  of 
Cromwell  and  Frederick  hovered;  here 
that  pitiful  and  pitiable  long  line  of 
ghostly  partakers  in  the  Revolution  an- 
swered to  his  roll  call. 

The  wind  whistled  down  the  chimney 
grewsomely  as  my  footfalls  echoed 
through  the  silent  chambers,  and  I 
thought  I  heard  a  sepulchral  voice  say  : 

"  Thy  future  life !  Thy  fate  is  it,  in- 
52 


Gbomas  Carlgle 


deed  !  Whilst  thou  makest  that  thy 
chief  question  thy  life  to  me  and  to  thy- 
self and  to  thy  God  is  worthless.  What 
is  incredible  to  thee  thou  shalt  not,  at 
thy  soul's  peril,  pretend  to  believe.  Else- 
whither for  a  refuge !  Away !  Go  to 
perdition  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  with  a  lie 
in  thy  mouth,  by  the  Eternal  Maker, 
No ! ! " 

I  was  startled  at  first,  but  stood  still 
listening;  then  I  thought  I  saw  a  faint 
blue  cloud  of  mist  curling  up  in  the  fire- 
place. Watching  this  smoke  and  sitting 
before  it  in  gloomy  abstraction  was  the 
form  of  an  old  man.  I  swept  my  hand 
through  the  apparition  but  still  it  stayed. 
My  lips  moved  in  spite  of  myself  and  I 
said: 

"  Hail !  hardheaded  man  of  granite-out- 
crop and  heather,  of  fen  aud  crag,  of  moor 
and  mountain,  and  of  bleak  east  wind, 
hail !  Eighty-six  years  didst  thou  live. 
One  hundred  years  lacking  fourteen  didst 
thou  suffer,  enjoy,  weep,  dream,  groan, 
pray,  and  strike  thy  rugged  breast !  And 
53 


Hbe  Ibaunts  ot 


yet  methinks  that  in  those  years  there 
was  much  quiet  peace  and  sweet  content ; 
for  constant  pain  benumbs,  and  worry  de- 
stroys, and  vain  unrest  summons  the  grim 
messenger  of  death.  But  thou  didst  live 
and  work  and  love ;  howbeit,  thy  touch 
was  not  always  gentle,  nor  thy  voice  low ; 
but  on  thy  lips  there  was  no  lie,  and  in 
thy  thought  no  concealment,  and  in  thy 
heart  no  pollution. 

"  But  mark !  thou  didst  come  out  of 
poverty  and  obscurity:  on  thy  battered 
shield  there  was  no  crest  and  thou  didst 
leave  all  to  follow  truth.  And  verily  she 
did  lead  thee  a  merry  chase  ! 

"  Thou  hadst  no  Past  but  thou  hast  a 
Future.  Thou  didst  say  :  ' Bury  me  in 
Westminster,  never !  where  the  mob 
surges,  cursed  with  idle  curiosity  to  see 
the  graves  of  kings  and  nobodies  ?  No  ! 
Take  me  back  to  rugged  Scotland  and 
lay  my  tired  form  to  rest  by  the  side  of 
an  honest  man — my  father.' 

"Thou  didst  refuse  the  Knighthood 
offered  thee  by  royalty,  saying  ■  I  am  not 
54 


Gbomas  Catlgle 


the  founder  of  the  house  of  Carlyle  and 
I  have  no  sons  to  be  pauperized  by  a  title.' 

"True,  thou  didst  leave  no  sons  after 
the  flesh  to  mourn  thy  loss,  nor  fair 
daughters  to  bedeck  thy  grave  with  gar- 
lands, but  thou  didst  reproduce  thyself 
in  thought,  and  on  the  minds  of  men  thou 
didst  leave  thy  impress.  And  thy  ten 
thousand  sons  will  keep  thy  memory 
green  so  long  as  men  shall  work,  and 
toil,  and  strive,  and  hope." 

The  wind  still  howled.  I  looked  out 
and  saw  watery  clouds  scudding  athwart 
the  face  of  the  murky  sky.  The  shutters 
banged,  and  shut  me  in  the  dark.  I  made 
haste  to  find  the  door,  reached  the  stair- 
way— slid  down  the  banisters  to  where 
Mrs.  Brown  was  waiting  for  me  at  the 
threshold. 

We  locked  the  door.  She  went  across 
to  her  little  bake  shop  and  I  stopped  a 
passing  policeman  to  ask  the  way  to 
Westminster.     He  told  me. 

"Did  you  visit  Carlyle's  'ouse?"  he 
asked. 

55 


Gbomas  Garble 


"Yes." 

"  With  old  Mrs.  Brown  ?  " 

11  Yes,  she  waited  for  me  in  the  door- 
way— she  had  the  rheumatism  so  could 
not  climb  the  stairs. " 

1  ■  The  rheumatism — Huh  !  I  see — you 
couldn't  'ire  'er  to  go  inside.  Why, 
don't  you  know  ? — they  say  the  'ouse  is 
'aunted ! " 

London,  August,  '94. 


56 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


57 


Put  roses  in  their  hair,  put  precious  stones  on 
their  breasts  ;  see  that  they  are  clothed  In  purple 
and  scarlet,  with  other  delights  ;  that  they  also 
learn  to  read  the  gilded  heraldry  of  the  sky  ;  and 
upon  the  earth  be  taught  not  only  the  labors  of 
it  but  the  loveliness. 

Deucalion. 


53 


JOHN  RUSKIN. 


AT  Windermere  a  good  friend  told 
me  that  I  must  abandon  all  hope 
of  seeing  Mr.  Ruskin  ;  for  I  had 
no  special  business  with  him,  no  letters  of 
introduction,  and  then  the  fact  that  I  am 
an  American  made  it  final.  Americans 
in  England  are  supposed  to  pick  flowers 
in  private  gardens,  cut  their  names  on 
trees,  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles,  and 
make  invidious  comparisons.  Very  prop- 
erly Mr.  Ruskin  does  not  admire  these 
things. 

Then  Mr.  Ruskin  is  a  very  busy  man. 
Occasionally  he  issues  a  printed  mani- 
festo to  his  friends  requesting  them  to 
give  him  peace.  A  copy  of  one  such  cir- 
cular was  shown  to  me.  It  runs,  "  Mr.  J. 
59 


XLbc  tbaunts  of 


Ruskin  is  about  to  begin  a  work  of  great 
importance  and  therefore  begs  that  in 
reference  to  calls  and  correspondence 
you  will  consider  him  dead  for  the  next 
two  months."  A  similar  notice  is  repro- 
duced in  Arrows  of  the  Chace,  and  this 
one  thing,  I  think,  illustrates  as  forcibly 
as  anything  in  Mr.  Ruskin's  work  the 
self-contained  characteristics  of  the  man 
himself. 

Surely  if  a  man  is  pleased  to  be  con- 
sidered "dead"  occasionally,  even  to 
his  kinsmen  and  friends,  he  should  not 
be  expected  to  receive  an  enemy  with 
open  arms  to  steal  away  his  time.  This 
is  assuming,  of  course,  that  all  individ- 
uals who  pick  flowers  in  other  folks' 
gardens,  cut  their  names  on  trees,  and 
laugh  boisterously  at  trifles,  are  enemies. 
I  therefore  decided  that  I  would  simply 
walk  over  to  Brantwood,  view  it  from  a 
distance,  tramp  over  its  hills,  row  across 
the  lake,  and  at  nightfall  take  a  swim  in 
its  waters.  Then  I  would  rest  at  the  Inn 
for  a  space  and  go  my  way. 
60 


5obn  IRuskfn 


Lake  Coniston  is  ten  miles  from  Gras- 
mere,  and  even  alone  the  walk  is  not 
long.  If,  however,  you  are  delightfully 
attended  by  King's  Daughters  with  whom 
you  sit  and  commune  now  and  then  on 
the  bankside,  the  distance  will  seem  to 
be  much  less.  Then  there  is  a  pleasant 
little  break  in  the  journey  at  Hawkshead. 
Here  one  may  see  the  quaint  old  school- 
house  where  Wordsworth  when  a  boy 
dangled  his  feet  from  a  bench  and  proved 
his  humanity  by  carving  his  initials  on 
the  seat. 

The  Inn  at  the  head  of  Coniston  Water 
appeared  very  inviting  and  restful  when 
I  saw  it  that  afternoon.  Built  in  sections 
from  generation  to  generation,  half  cov- 
ered with  ivy  and  embowered  in  climbing 
roses,  it  is  an  institution  entirely  differ- 
ent from  the  "Grand  Palace  Hotel"  at 
Oshkosh.  In  America  we  have  gongs 
that  are  fiercely  beaten  at  stated  times  by 
gentlemen  of  color,  just  as  they  are  sup- 
posed to  do  in  their  native  Congo  jungles. 
This  din  proclaims  to  the  "guests"  and 
61 


XLbc  Ibaunts  of 


the  public  at  large  that  it  is  time  to  come 
in  and  be  fed.  But  this  refinement  of 
civilization  is  not  yet  in  Coniston  and  the 
Inn  is  quiet  and  homelike.  You  may  go 
to  bed  when  you  are  tired,  get  up  when 
you  choose,  and  eat  when  you  are  hungry. 

There  were  no  visitors  about  when  I 
arrived  and  I  thought  I  would  have  the 
coffee  room  all  to  myself  at  luncheon 
time ;  but  presently  there  came  in  a 
pleasant-faced  old  gentleman  in  knicker- 
bockers. He  bowed  to  me  and  then  took 
a  place  at  the  table.  He  said  that  it  was 
a  fine  day  and  I  agreed  with  him,  adding 
that  the  mountains  were  very  beautiful. 
He  assented,  putting  in  a  codicil  to  the 
effect  that  the  lake  was  very  pretty. 

Then  the  waiter  came  for  our  orders. 

"Together,  I  s'pose,"  remarked  Thomas, 
inquiringly,  as  he  halted  at  the  door  and 
balanced  the  tray  on  his  finger  tips. 

"Yes,  serve  lunch  for  us  together," 
said  the  ruddy  old  gentleman  as  he  looked 
at  me  and  smiled,  "  to  eat  alone  is  bad  for 
the  digestion." 

62 


5obn  IRusfcin 


I  nodded  assent. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to 
Brantwood?  "  I  asked. 

w  Oh,  not  far,  just  across  the  lake." 

He  arose  and  flung  the  shutter  open  so 
I  could  see  the  old  yellow  house  about  a 
mile  across  the  water,  nestling  in  its 
wealth  of  green  on  the  hillside.  Soon 
the  waiter  brought  our  lunch,  and  while 
we  discussed  the  chops  and  new  potatoes 
we  talked  Ruskiniana. 

The  old  gentleman  knew  a  deal  more 
of  Stones  of  Venice  and  Modern  Painters 
than  I ;  but  I  told  him  how  Thoreau 
introduced  Ruskin  to  America  and  how 
Concord  was  the  first  place  in  the  New 
World  to  recognize  this  star  in  the  Bast. 
And  upon  my  saying  this,  the  old  gentle- 
man brought  his  knife-handle  down  on 
the  table,  declaring  that  Thoreau  and 
Whitman  were  the  only  two  men  of  ge- 
nius that  America  had  produced.  I  begged 
him  to  make  it  three  and  include  Emer- 
son, which  he  finally  consented  to  do. 

By  and  by  the  waiter  cleared  the  table 
63 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


preparatory  to  bringing  in  the  coffee.  The 
old  gentleman  pushed  his  chair  back, 
took  the  napkin  from  under  his  double 
chin,  brushed  the  crumbs  from  his  goodly 
front,  and  remarked : 

"I'm  going  over  to  Brantwood  this 
afternoon  to  call  on  Mr.  Ruskin — just  to 
pay  my  respects  to  him,  as  I  always  do 
when  I  come  here.  Can't  you  go  with 
me?" 

I  think  this  was  about  the  most  pleas- 
ing question  I  ever  had  asked  me.  I  was 
going  to  request  him  to  "come  again" 
just  for  the  joy  of  hearing  the  words,  but 
I  pulled  my  dignity  together,  straight- 
ened up,  swallowed  my  coffee  red  hot, 
pushed  my  chair  back,  nourished  my 
napkin,  and  said:  "I  shall  be  much 
pleased  to  go." 

So  we  went.  We  two  :  he  in  his  knick- 
erbockers and  I  in  my  checks  and  outing 
shirt.  I  congratulated  myself  on  look- 
ing no  worse  than  he,  and  as  for  him, 
he  never  seemed  to  think  our  costumes 
were  not  exactly  what  they  should  be  ;  and 
64 


5obn  IRusfctn 


after  all  it  matters  little  how  you  dress 
when  you  call  on  one  of  nature's  noble- 
men— they  demand  no  livery. 

We  walked  around  the  northern  end 
of  Coniston  Water,  along  the  eastern 
edge,  past  Tent  House,  where  Tennyson 
once  lived  (and  found  it  "outrageous 
quiet "),  and  a  mile  farther  on  we  came 
to  Brantwood. 

The  road  curves  in  to  the  back  of  the 
house — which,  by  the  way,  is  the  front — 
and  the  driveway  is  lined  with  great  trees 
that  form  a  complete  archway.  There 
is  no  lodge-keeper,  no  flower  beds  laid 
out  with  square  and  compass,  no  trees 
trimmed  to  appear  like  elephants,  no  cast- 
iron  dogs,  nor  terra  cotta  deer,  and,  stran- 
gest of  all,  no  sign  of  the  lawn-mower. 
There  is  nothing,  in  fact,  to  give  forth 
a  sign  that  the  great  Apostle  of  Beauty 
lives  in  this  very  old-fashioned  spot. 
Big  bowlders  are  to  be  seen  here  and 
there  where  nature  left  them,  tangles  of 
vines  running  over  old  stumps,  part  of 
the  meadow  cut  close  with  a  scythe,  and 
65 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


part  growing  up  as  if  the  owner  knew  the 
price  of  hay.  Then  there  are  flower  beds 
where  grow  clusters  of  poppies  and  holly- 
hocks, purple,  and  scarlet,  and  white; 
prosaic  gooseberry  bushes,  plain  Yankee 
pieplant  (from  which  the  English  make 
tarts),  rue,  and  sweet  marjoram,  with 
patches  of  fennel,  sage,  thyme,  and  cat- 
nip, all  lined  off  with  boxwood,  making 
me  think  of  my  grandmother's  garden 
at  Roxbury. 

On  the  hillside  above  the  garden  we 
saw  the  entrance  to  the  cave  that  Mr. 
Ruskin  once  filled  with  ice,  just  to  show 
the  world  how  to  keep  its  head  cool  at 
small  expense.  He  even  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  papers  giving  the  bright  idea  to 
humanity — that  the  way  to  utilize  caves 
was  to  fill  them  with  ice.  Then  he  for- 
got all  about  the  matter.  But  the  follow- 
ing June  when  the  cook,  wishing  to  make 
some  ice  cream  as  a  glad  surprise  for  the 
Sunday  dinner,  opened  the  natural  ice- 
chest,  she  found  only  a  pool  of  muddy 
water,  and  exclaimed:  "Botheration!" 
66 


3obn  IRuskfn 


Then  they  had  custard   instead   of  ice 
cream. 

We  walked  up  the  steps,  and  my  friend 
let  the  brass  knocker  drop  just  once,  for 
only  Americans  give  a  rat-a-tat-tat,  and 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  white-whis- 
kered butler,  who  took  our  cards  and  ush- 
ered us  into  the  library.  My  heart  beat 
a  trifle  fast  as  I  took  inventory  of  the 
room  ;  for  I  never  before  had  called  on  a 
man  who  was  believed  to  have  refused 
the  poet  laureateship.  A  dimly  lighted 
room  was  this  library  —  walls  painted 
brown,  running  up  to  mellow  yellow  at 
the  ceiling.  High  bookshelves,  with  a 
step-ladder,  and  only  five  pictures  on  the 
walls,  and  of  these  three  were  etchings, 
and  two  water  colors  of  a  very  simple 
sort.  leather  covered  chairs,  a  long  table 
in  the  centre,  on  which  were  strewn 
sundry  magazines  and  papers,  also  several 
photographs,  and  at  one  end  of  the 
room  a  big  fireplace,  where  a  yew  log 
smouldered.  Here  my  inventory  was  cut 
short  by  a  cheery  voice  behind  : 
67 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


"Ah!  now,  gentlemen,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you." 

There  was  no  time  nor  necessity  for  a 
formal  introduction.  The  great  man  took 
my  hand  as  if  he  had  always  known 
me,  as  perhaps  he  thought  he  had.  Then 
he  greeted  my  friend  in  the  same  way, 
stirred  up  the  fire,  for  it  was  a  north  of 
England  summer  day,  and  took  a  seat 
by  the  table.  We  were  all  silent  for  a 
space — a  silence  without  embarrassment. 

"  You  were  looking  at  the  etching  over 
the  fireplace — it  was  sent  to  me  by  a  young 
lady  in  America,"  said  Mr.  Ruskin,  "  and 
I  placed  it  there  to  get  acquainted  with  it. 
I  like  it  more  and  more.  Do  you  know 
the  scene  ?  "  I  knew  the  scene  and  ex- 
plained somewhat  about  it. 

Mr.  Ruskin  has  the  faculty  of  making 
his  interviewer  do  most  of  the  talking. 
He  is  a  rare  listener,  and  leans  forward, 
putting  a  hand  behind  his  right  ear  to 
get  each  word  you  say.  He  was  particu- 
larly interested  in  the  industrial  condi- 
tions of  America,  and  I  soon  found  myself 
68 


3obn  IRusfcin 


"occupying  the  time,"  while  an  occa- 
sional word  of  interrogation  from  Mr. 
Ruskin  gave  me  no  chance  to  stop.  I 
came  to  hear  him,  not  to  defend  our  "  re- 
publican experiment,"  as  he  was  pleased 
to  call  the  United  States  of  America. 
Yet  Mr.  Ruskin  was  so  gentle  and 
respectful  in  his  manner,  and  so  compli- 
mentary in  his  attitude  of  a  listener,  that 
my  impatience  at  his  want  of  sympathy 
for  our  "  experiment"  only  caused  me  to 
feel  a  little  heated. 

"The  fact  of  women  being  elected  to 
mayoralities  in  Kansas  makes  me  think 
of  certain  African  tribes  that  exalt  their 
women  into  warriors  —  you  want  your 
women  to  fight  your  political  battles  !  " 

"  You  evidently  hold  the  same  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  equal  rights  that  you 
expressed  some  years  ago,"  interposed 
my  companion. 

"  What  did  I  say — really  I  have  for- 
gotten ?  " 

"  You  replied  to  a  correspondent,  say- 
ing :  '  You  are  certainly  right  as  to  my 
69 


XLbc  f)aunts  of 


views  respecting  the  female  franchise.  So 
far  from  wishing  to  give  votes  to  women, 
I  would  fain  take  them  away  from  most 
men.'  " 

"Surely  that  was  a  sensible  answer. 
My  respect  for  woman  is  too  great  to  force 
on  her  increased  responsibilities.  Then 
as  for  restricting  the  franchise  with  men 
I  am  of  the  firm  conviction  that  no  man 
should  be  allowed  to  vote  who  does  not 
own  property,  or  who  cannot  do  consid- 
erable more  than  read  and  write.  The 
voter  makes  the  laws,  and  why  should 
the  laws  regulating  the  holding  of  prop- 
erty be  made  by  a  man  who  has  no  inter- 
est in  property  beyond  a  covetous  desire  ; 
or  why  should  he  legislate  on  education 
when  he  possesses  none  !  Then  again 
women  do  not  bear  arms  to  protect  the 
state." 

"  But  what  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Carlock, 
who  answers  that  inasmuch  as  men  do  not 
bear  children  they  have  no  right  to  vote  : 
going  to  war  possibly  being  necessary 
and  possibly  not,  but  the  perpetuity  of 
70 


Jobn  IRusktn 


the  state  demanding  that  some  one  bear 
children." 

"The lady's  argument  is  ingenious  but 
lacks  force  when  we  consider  that  the 
bearing  of  arms  is  a  matter  relating  to 
statecraft,  while  the  baby  question  is 
Dame  Nature's  own,  and  is  not  to  be  regu- 
lated even  by  the  sovereign." 

Then  Mr.  Ruskin  talked  for  nearly  fif- 
teen minutes  on  the  duty  of  the  state  to 
the  individual— talked  very  deliberately, 
but  with  the  clearness  and  force  of  a  man 
who  believes  what  he  says  and  says  what 
he  believes. 

So  my  friend  by  a  gentle  thrust  under 
the  fifth  rib  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  logic  caused 
him  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  his  previ- 
ously expressed  opinions,  and  we  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  him  discourse  ear- 
nestly and  eloquently. 

Maiden  ladies  usually  have  an  opinion 
ready  on  the  subject  of  masculine 
methods,  and,  conversely,  much  of  the 
world's  logic  on  the  "  woman  question  " 
has  come  from  the  bachelor  brain. 
7i 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


Mr.  Ruskin  went  quite  out  of  his  way 
on  several  occasions  in  times  past  to 
attack  John  Stuart  Mill  for  heresy  "  in 
opening  up  careers  for  women  other 
than  that  of  wife  and  mother."  When 
Mill  did  not  answer  Mr.  Ruskin's  news- 
paper letters,  the  author  of  Sesame 
and  Lilies  called  him  a  "  cretinous 
wretch "  and  referred  to  him  as  "  the 
man  of  no  imagination."  Mr.  Mill  may 
have  been  a  cretinous  wretch  (I  do  not 
exactly  understand  the  phrase),  but  the 
preface  to  On  Liberty,  is  at  once  the  ten- 
derest,  highest,  and  most  sincere  com- 
pliment paid  to  a  woman,  of  which  I 
know. 

The  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Stuart 
Mill  shows  that  the  perfect  mating  is  pos- 
sible ;  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  only  scorn  for 
the  opinions  of  Mr.  Mill  on  a  subject 
which  Mill  came  as  near  personally  solv- 
ing in  a  matrimonial  "  experiment"  as 
any  other  public  man  of  modern  times, 
not  excepting  even  Robert  Browning. 
Therefore  we  might  suppose  Mr.  Mill 
72 


Sobn  IRusfcin 


entitled  to  speak  on  the  woman  question, 
and  I  intimated  as  much  to  Mr.  Ruskin. 

"  He  might  know  all  about  one  woman, 
and  if  he  should  regard  her  as  a  sample 
of  all  womankind,  would  he  not  make  a 
great  mistake?  " 

I  was  silenced. 

In  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LIX,  the  au- 
thor says  :  "  I  never  wrote  a  letter  in  my 
life  which  all  the  world  is  not  welcome 
to  read."  From  this  one  might  imagine 
that  Mr.  Ruskin  never  loved — no  pressed 
flowers  in  books,  no  passages  of  poetry 
double  marked  and  scored,  no  bundles 
of  letters  faded  and  yellow,  sacred  for  his 
own  eye,  tied  with  white  or  dainty  blue 
ribbon  ;  no  little  nothings  hidden  away  in 
the  bottom  of  a  trunk.  And  yet  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  his  ideas  on  the  woman  ques- 
tion and  very  positive  ideas  they  are  too — 
often  sweetly  sympathetic  and  wisely 
helpful. 

I  see  that  one  of  the  encyclopedias 
mentions  Ruskin  as  a  bachelor,  which 
is  giving  rather  an  extended  meaning 
73 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


to  the  word,  for  although  Mr.  Ruskin 
married,  he  was  not  mated.  According 
to  Collingwood's  account,  this  marriage 
was  a  quiet  arrangement  between  parents. 
Anyway  the  genius  is  like  the  profligate 
in  this  :  when  he  marries  he  generally 
makes  a  woman  miserable.  And  misery 
is  reactionary  as  well  as  infectious.  Ruskin 
is  a  genius. 

Genius  is  unique.  No  satisfactory  an- 
alysis of  it  has  yet  been  given.  We  know 
a  few  of  its  indications — that 's  all.  First 
among  these  is  ability  to  concentrate. 

No  seed  can  sow  genius ;  no  soil  can 
grow  it :  its  quality  is  inborn  and  defies 
both  cultivation  and  extermination. 

To  be  surpassed  is  never  pleasant ;  to 
feel  your  inferiority  is  to  feel  a  pang. 
Seldom  is  there  a  person  great  enough  to 
find  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  a  friend. 
The  pleasure  that  excellence  gives  is  oft 
tainted  by  resentment ;  and  so  the  woman 
who  marries  a  genius  is  usually  unhappy. 

Genius  is  excess  :  it  is  obstructive  to 
little  plans.     It  is  difficult  to  warm  your- 
74 


3obn  IRusfcin 


self  at  a  conflagration  ;  the  tempest  may 
blow  you  away  ;  the  sun  dazzles ;  light- 
ning seldom  strikes  gently  ;  the  Nile 
overflows.  Genius  has  its  times  of  stray- 
ing off  into  the  infinite  and  then  what  is 
the  good  wife  to  do  for  companionship  ? 
Does  she  protest,  and  find  fault  ?  It  could 
not  be  otherwise,  for  genius  is  dictatorial 
without  knowing  it,  obstructive  without 
wishing  to  be,  intolerant  unawares  and 
unsocial  because  it  cannot  help  it. 

The  wife  of  a  genius  sometimes  takes 
his  fits  of  abstraction  for  stupidity,  and 
having  the  man's  interests  at  heart  she  en- 
deavors to  arouse  him  out  of  his  lethargy 
by  chiding  him.  Occasionally  he  arouses 
enough  to  chide  back  ;  and  so  it  has  be- 
come an  axiom  that  genius  is  not  domestic. 

A  short  period  of  mismated  life  told 
the  wife  of  Rusk  in  their  mistake,  and 
she  told  him.  But  Mrs.  Grundy  was  at 
the  keyhole,  ready  to  tell  the  world,  and 
so  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruskin  sought  to  deceive 
society  by  pretending  to  live  together. 
They  kept  up  this  appearance  for  six  sor- 
75 


Gbe  Ibaunte  of 


rowful  years,  and  then  the  lady  simplified 
the  situation  by  packing  her  trunks  and 
deliberately  leaving  her  genius  to  his 
chimeras  ;  her  soul  doubtless  softened  by 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  bestowing  a 
benefit  on  him  by  going  away.  The  lady 
afterwards  became  the  happy  wife  and 
helpmeet  of  a  great  artist. 

Ruskin's  father  was  a  prosperous  im- 
porter of  wines.  He  left  his  son  a  fort- 
une equal  to  a  little  more  than  one  mil- 
lion dollars.  But  that  vast  fortune  has 
gone — principal  and  interest — gone  in  be- 
quests, gifts,  and  experiments  ;  and  to-day 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  no  income  save  that  de- 
rived from  the  sale  of  his  books.  Talk 
about  "  Distribution  of  Wealth  "  !  Here 
we  have  it. 

The  bread-and-butter  question  has  never 
troubled  John  Ruskin  except  in  his  ever- 
ardent  desire  that  others  should  be  fed. 
His  days  have  been  given  to  study  and 
writing  from  his  very  boyhood ;  he  has 
made  money,  but  he  has  had  no  time  to 
save  it. 

76 


3obn  IRuskfn 


He  has  expressed  himself  on  every 
theme  that  interests  mankind  excepting 
"housemaid's  knee."  He  has  written 
more  letters  to  the  newspapers  than  "  Old 
Subscriber,"  "  Fiat  Justitia,"  "Indignant 
Reader,"  and  "  Veritas  "  combined.  His 
opinions  have  carried  much  weight  and 
directed  attention  into  necessary  lines  ; 
but  perhaps  his  success  as  an  inspirer  of 
thought  lies  in  the  fact  that  his  sense 
of  humor  exists  only  in  a  trace,  as  the 
chemist  might  say.  Men  who  perceive 
the  ridiculous  would  never  have  voiced 
many  of  the  things  which  he  has  said. 

Surely  those  Sioux  Indians  who 
stretched  a  hay  lariat  across  the  Union 
Pacific  railroad  in  order  to  stop  the 
running  of  trains  had  small  sense  of  the 
ridiculous.  But  it  looks  as  if  they  were 
apostles  of  Ruskin,  every  one. 

Some  one  has  said  that  no  man  can 
appreciate  the  beautiful  who  has  not  a 
keen  sense  of  humor.  For  the  beautiful 
is  the  harmonious,  and  the  laughable  is 
the  absence  of  fit  adjustment. 
77 


XLbc  Ibaunts  of 


Mr.  Ruskin  disproves  the  maxim. 

But  let  no  hasty  soul  imagine  that  John 
Ruskin's  opinions  on  practical  themes 
are  not  useful.  He  brings  to  bear  an 
energy  on  every  subject  he  touches  (and 
what  subject  has  he  not  touched  ?)  that  is 
sure  to  make  the  sparks  of  thought  fly. 
His  independent  and  fearless  attitude 
awakens  from  slumber  a  deal  of  dozing 
intellect,  and  out  of  this  strife  of  opinion 
comes  truth. 

On  account  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  at  times 
refusing  to  see  visitors,  reports  have  gone 
abroad  that  his  mind  was  giving  way. 
Not  so,  for  although  he  is  seventy-four  he 
is  as  serenely  stubborn  as  he  ever  was. 
His  opposition  to  new  inventions  in  ma- 
chinery has  not  relaxed  a  single  pulley's 
turn.  You  grant  his  premises  and  in  his 
conclusions  you  will  find  that  his  belt 
never  slips,  and  that  his  logic  never 
jumps  a  cog. 

His  life  is  as  regular  and  exact  as  the 
trains  on  the  Great  Western,  and  his 
days  are  more  peaceful  than  ever  before. 
78 


5obn  IRuskfn 


He  has  regular  hours  for  writing,  study, 
walking,  reading,  eating,  and  working  out 
of  doors,  superintending  the  cultivation 
of  his  hundred  acres.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  not  varied  a  half  hour  in  two  years 
from  a  certain  time  of  going  to  bed  or 
getting  up  in  the  morning.  Although 
his  form  is  bowed,  this  regularity  of  life 
has  borne  fruit  in  the  rich  russet  of  his 
complexion,  the  mild,  clear  eye,  and  the 
pleasure  in  living  in  spite  of  occasional 
pain,  which  you  know  the  man  feels. 
His  hair  is  thick  and  nearly  white  ;  the 
beard  is  now  worn  quite  long  and  gives  a 
patriarchal  appearance  to  the  fine  face. 

When  we  arose  to  take  our  leave  Mr. 
Ruskin  took  a  white  felt  hat  from  the 
elk  antlers  in  the  hallway  and  a  stout 
stick  from  the  corner,  and  offered  to  show 
us  a  nearer  way  back  to  the  village.  We 
walked  down  a  footpath  through  the  tall 
grass  to  the  lake,  where  he  called  our 
attention  to  various  varieties  of  ferns 
that  he  had  transplanted  there. 

We  shook  hands  with  the  old  gentle- 
79 


5obn  IRusktn 


man  and  thanked  him  for  the  pleasure  he 
had  given  us.  He  was  still  examining 
the  ferns  when  we  lifted  our  hats  and 
bade  him  good  day.  He  evidently  did 
not  hear  us,  for  I  heard  him  mutter  :  "I 
verily  believe  those  miserable  Cook's 
tourists  that  were  down  here  yesterday 
picked  some  of  my  ferns." 

Liverpool,  Sept.,  '94. 


80 


WM.  E.  GLADSTONE 


81 


As  the  aloe  is  said  to  flower  only  once  in  a 
hundred  years,  so  it  seems  to  be  but  once  in  a 
thousand  years  that  nature  blossoms  into  this 
unrivalled  product  and  produces  such  a  man  as 
we  have  here. 

Gladstone— Lecture  on  Homer. 


WM.  E.  GLADSTONE. 


i. 


AMERICAN  travellers  in  England 
are  said  to  accumulate  sometimes 
large  and  unique  assortments  of 
lisps,   drawls,  and    other    very   peculiar 
things.     Of  the  value  of  these  acquire- 
ments as  regards  their  use  and  beauty,  I 
have  not  room  here  to  speak.     But  there 
is  one  adjunct  which  England  has  that 
we  positively  need,  and  that  is  "Boots." 
It  may  be  that  Boots  is  indigenous  to  Eng- 
land's soil  and  that  when  transplanted 
he  withers  and  dies ;  perhaps  there  is  a 
quality  in  our  atmosphere  that  kills  him. 
Anyway  we  have  no  Boots. 
When  trouble,  adversity,  or  bewilder- 
83 


Gbe  1>aunte  of 


ment  comes  to  the  homesick  traveller  in 
an  American  hotel,  to  whom  can  he  turn 
for  consolation  ?  Alas,  the  porter  is 
afraid  of  the  "guest,"  and  all  guests  are 
afraid  of  the  clerk,  and  the  proprietor 
is  never  seen,  and  the  Afri-Americans 
in  the  dining-room  are  stupid,  and  the 
chambermaid  does  not  answer  the  ring, 
and  at  last  the  weary  wanderer  hies  him 
to  the  barroom  and  soon  discovers  that 
the  worthy  "barkeep"  has  nothing  to 
recommend  him  but  his  diamond  pin. 
How  different,  yes,  how  different  this 
would  all  be  if  Boots  were  only  here ! 
At  the  quaint  old  city  of  Chester  I 
was  met  at  the  "sti-shun"  by  the  boots 
of  that  excellent  though  modest  hotel 
which  stands  only  a  block  away.  Boots 
picked  out  my  baggage  without  my  look- 
ing for  it,  took  me  across  to  the  Inn,  and 
showed  me  to  the  daintiest,  most  home- 
like little  room  that  I  had  seen  for  weeks. 
On  the  table  was  a  tastefully  decorated 
"jug,"  evidently  just  placed  there  in  an- 
ticipation of  my  arrival,  and  in  this  jug 
84 


TKIlm.  26.  ©lactone 


-was  a  large  bunch  of  gorgeous  roses,  the 
morning  dew  still  on  them. 

When  Boots  had  brought  me  hot  water 
for  shaving  he  disappeared  and  did  not 
come  back  until,  by  the  use  of  telepathy 
(for  Boots  is  always  psychic)  I  had  sent 
him  a  message  that  he  was  needed.  In 
the  afternoon  he  went  with  me  to  get  a 
draft  cashed,  then  he  identified  me  at  the 
Post  Office,  and  introduced  me  to  a  dig- 
nitary at  the  cathedral  whose  courtesy 
added  greatly  to  my  enjoyment  of  the 
visit. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast, 
when  I  returned  to  my  room,  everything 
was  put  to  rights  and  a  fresh  bouquet  of 
cut  flowers  was  on  the  mantel.  A  good 
breakfast  adds  much  to  one's  inward 
peace  :  I  sat  down  before  the  open  win- 
dow and  looked  out  at  the  great  oaks 
dotting  the  green  meadows  that  stretched 
away  to  the  north,  and  listened  to  the 
drowsy  tinkle  of  sheep  bells  as  the  sound 
came  floating  in  on  the  perfumed  breeze. 
I  was  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  be 
85 


Gbe  flaunts  of 


here,  when  the  step  of  Boots  was  heard 
in  the  doorway.  I  turned  and  saw  that 
mine  own  familiar  friend  had  lost  a  little 
of  his  calm  self-reliance — in  fact,  he  was 
a  bit  agitated,  but  he  soon  recovered  his 
breath : 

"  Mr.  Gladstone  and  'is  Lady  'ave  just 
arrived,  sir, — they  will  be  'ere  for  an  hour 
before  taking  the  train  for  Iyunnon,  sir. 
I  told  'is  dark  there  was  a  party  of  Amer- 
icans 'ere  that  were  very  anxious  to  meet 
'im  and  he  will  receive  you  in  the  parlor 
in  fifteen  minutes,  sir." 

Then  it  was  my  turn  to  be  agitated. 
But  Boots  reassured  me  by  explaining 
that  the  Grand  Old  Man  was  just  the 
plainest,  most  unpretentious  gentleman 
one  could  imagine  ;  that  it  was  not  at  all 
necessary  that  I  should  change  my  suit ; 
that  I  should  pronounce  it  Gladstun  not 
Glad-stone,  and  that  it  was  Harden  not 
Ha-war-den.  Then  he  stood  me  up,  looked 
me  over  and  declared  that  I  was  all  right. 

On  going  down-stairs  I  found  that  Boots 
had  gotten  together  five  Americans  who 
86 


WLm.  IE.  (Slafcstone 


happened  to  be  in  the  hotel.  He  intro- 
duced us  to  a  bright  little  man  who 
seemed  to  be  the  companion  or  secretary 
of  the  Prime  Minister ;  he,  in  turn,  took 
us  into  the  parlor  where  Mr.  Gladstone 
sat  reading  the  morning  paper  and  pre- 
sented us  one  by  one  to  the  great  man. 
We  were  each  greeted  with  a  pleasant 
word  and  a  firm  grasp  of  the  hand,  and 
then  the  old  gentleman  turned  and  with 
a  courtly  flourish  said  :  "  Gentlemen,  al- 
low me  to  present  you  to  Mrs.  Glad- 
stone." 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  wise :  he  remained 
standing;  this  was  sure  to  shorten  the 
interview.  A  clergyman,  with  an  impres- 
sive cough  and  bushy  whiskers,  in  our 
party  acted  as  spokesman  and  said  several 
pleasant  things,  closing  his  little  speech 
by  informing  Mr.  Gladstone  that  Ameri- 
cans held  him  in  great  esteem,  and  that 
we  only  regretted  that  fate  had  not  de- 
creed that  he  should  have  been  born  in 
the  United  States. 

Mr.  Gladstone  replied,  "Fate  is  often 
87 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


unkind."  Then  he  asked  if  we  were  go- 
ing to  London.  On  being  told  that  we 
were,  he  spoke  for  five  minutes  about  the 
things  we  should  see  in  the  Metropolis. 
His  style  was  not  conversational,  but 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  who  was  much 
used  to  speaking  in  public  or  receiving 
delegations.  The  sentences  were  stately, 
the  voice  rather  loud  and  declamatory. 
His  closing  words  were : ' '  Yes,  gentlemen, 
the  way  to  see  London  is  from  the  top  of  a 
'bus — from  the  top  of  a  'bus,  gentlemen." 
Then  there  was  an  almost  imperceptible 
wave  of  the  hand  and  we  knew  that  the 
interview  was  ended.  In  a  moment  we 
were  outside  and  the  door  was  closed. 

The  five  Americans  who  made  up  our 
little  company  had  never  met  before,  but 
now  we  were  as  brothers  ;  we  adjourned 
to  a  side  room  to  talk  it  over  and  tell  of 
the  things  we  intended  to  say  but  didn't. 
We  all  talked  and  talked  at  once,  just  as 
people  always  do  who  have  recently  pre- 
served an  enforced  silence. 

"  How  ill-fitting  was  that  gray  suit!  " 
88 


Tldm.  J£.  (3 lactone 


"  Yes,  the  sleeves  too  long." 

"Did  you  notice  the  absence  of  the 
forefinger  of  his  left  hand — shot  off  in 
1845  while  hunting,  they  say." 

"  But  how  strong  his  voice  is  !  " 

"  He  looks  like  a  farmer." 

"  Eighty-five  years  of  age  !  think  of  it, 
and  how  vigorous  !  " 

Then  the  preacher  spoke  and  his  voice 
was  sorrowful : 

"  Oh,  but  I  made  a  botch  of  it — was  it 
sarcasm  or  was  it  not  ?  " 

"What  was  sarcasm ? " 

"When  Mr.  Gladstone  said  that  fate 
was  unkind  in  not  having  him  born  in 
the  United  States  !  " 

And  we  were  all  silent.  Then  Boots 
came  in  and  we  put  the  question  to  Boots, 
and  Boots  decided  that  it  was  not  sarcasm. 
And  the  next  day,  when  we  went  away, 
we  rewarded  Boots  bountifully. 


39 


II. 


GLADSTONE  is  England's  glory. 
Yet  there  is  no  English  blood 
in  his  veins:  his  parents  were 
Scotch.  Aside  from  Lord  Brougham  he 
is  the  only  Scotchman  who  has  ever  taken 
a  prominent  part  in  British  statecraft. 
The  name  as  we  first  find  it  is  Gled-Stane  : 
"  gled  "  being  a  hawk — literally,  a  hawk 
that  lives  among  the  stones.  Surely  the 
hawk  is  fully  as  respectable  a  bird  as  the 
eagle,  and  a  goodly  amount  of  granite  in 
the  clay  that  is  used  to  make  a  man  is  no 
disadvantage.     The  name  fits. 

There  are  deep-rooted  theories  in  the 
minds  of  many  men  (and  still  more  wo- 
men) that  bad  boys  make  good  men,  and 
that  a  dash  of  the  pirate,  even  in  a  prel- 
ate, does  not  disqualify.  But  I  wish  to 
come  to  the  defence  of  the  Sunday-school 
90 


TWlm.  B.  ©lafcstone 


story-books  and  show  that  their  very- 
prominent  moral  is  right  after  all :  it 
pays  to  be  "good." 

William  Ewart  Gladstone  was  sent  to 
Eton  when  twelve  years  of  age.  From 
the  first  his  conduct  was  a  model  of  pro- 
priety. He  attended  every  chapel  ser- 
vice, and  said  his  prayers  in  the  morning 
and  before  going  to  bed  at  night ;  he  could 
repeat  the  catechism  backwards  or  for- 
wards, and  recite  more  verses  of  Scrip- 
ture than  any  boy  in  school. 

He  always  spoke  the  truth.  He  never 
played  "hookey"  ;  nor,  as  he  grew  older, 
would  he  tell  stories  of  doubtful  flavor, 
or  allow  others  to  relate  such  in  his  pres- 
ence. His  influence  was  for  good,  and 
Cardinal  Manning  has  said  that  there  was 
less  wine  drunk  at  Oxford  during  the 
forties  than  would  have  been  the  case 
if  Gladstone  had  not  been  there  in  the 
thirties. 

He  graduated  from  Christchurch  with 
the  highest  possible  honors  the  college 
could  bestow,  and  at  twenty-two  he 
9i 


Zbe  f>aunts  of 


seemed  like  one  who  had  sprung  into 
life  full  armed. 

At  that  time  he  had  magnificent  health, 
a  fine  form,  vast  and  varied  knowledge, 
and  a  command  of  language  so  great 
that  he  was  a  master  of  forensics.  His 
speeches  were  fully  equal  to  his  later 
splendid  efforts.  In  feature  he  was  hand- 
some ;  the  face  bold  and  masculine  ;  eyes 
of  piercing  lustre ;  and  hair,  that  he 
tossed  when  in  debate,  like  a  lion's  mane. 
He  could  speak  five  languages,  sing  tenor, 
dance  gracefully,  and  was  on  more  than 
speaking  terms  with  many  of  the  best 
and  greatest  men  in  England.  Besides 
all  this  he  was  rich  in  British  gold. 

Now  here  is  a  combination  of  good 
things  that  would  send  most  young  men 
straight  to  perdition  :  not  so  Gladstone. 
He  took  the  best  care  of  his  health,  sys- 
tematized his  time  as  a  miser  might,  list- 
ened not  to  the  flatterers,  and  used  his 
money  only  for  good  purposes.  His  in- 
tention was  to  enter  the  Church,  but  his 
father  said,  "Not  yet,"  and  half  forced 
92 


"Cdm.  IS.  (BlaDstone 


him  into  politics.  So  at  this  early  age  of 
twenty-two  he  ran  for  Parliament,  was 
elected,  and  practically  has  never  been 
out  of  the  shadow  of  Westminster  Palace 
during  these  sixty-odd  years. 

At  thirty-three  he  was  a  member  of  the 
Cabinet.  At  thirty-six  his  absolute  hon- 
esty compelled  him  for  conscience'  sake 
to  resign  from  the  Ministry.  His  oppo- 
nents then  said,  "  Gladstone  is  an  extinct 
volcano,"  and  they  have  said  this  again 
and  again,  but  somehow  the  volcano  al- 
ways breaks  out  in  a  new  place,  stronger 
and  brighter  than  ever.  It  is  difficult  to 
subdue  a  volcano. 

When  twenty-nine  he  married  Cather- 
ine Glynne,  sister  and  heir  of  Sir  Stephen 
Glynne,  Bart.  The  marriage  was  most 
fortunate  in  every  way.  For  over  fifty 
years  this  most  excellent  woman  has 
been  his  comrade,  counsellor,  consola- 
tion, friend — his  wife.  How  can  any  ad- 
versity come  to  him  who  hath  a  wife  ? 
said  Chaucer. 

If  this  splendid  woman  had  died,  then 
93 


Gbe  trnunts  of 

his  opponents  might  truthfully  have  said, 
"  Gladstone  is  an  extinct  volcano  "  ;  but 
she  is  still  with  him,  and  a  short  time  ago, 
when  he  had  to  undergo  an  operation  for 
cataract,  this  woman  of  eighty  was  his 
only  nurse. 

The  influence  of  Gladstone  has  been  of 
untold  value  to  England.  His  ideals  for 
national  action  have  been  high.  To  the 
material  prosperity  of  the  country  he  has 
added  millions  upon  millions  ;  he  has 
made  education  popular,  and  schooling 
easy  ;  his  policy  in  the  main  has  been 
such  as  to  command  the  admiration  of 
the  good  and  great.  But  there  are  spots 
on  the  sun. 

On  reading  Mr.  Gladstone's  books  I 
find  he  has  vigorously  defended  certain 
measures  that  seem  unworthy  of  his  gen- 
ius. He  has  palliated  human  slavery  as  a 
"necessary  evil"  ;  has  maintained  the 
visibility  and  divine  authority  of  the 
Church ;  has  asserted  the  mathemati- 
cal certainty  of  the  historic  episcopate  ; 
the  mystical  efficacy  of  the  sacraments; 
94 


"Gdm.  3£.  ©lactone 


and  vindicated  the  Church  of  England  as 
the  God-appointed  guardian  of  truth. 

He  has  fought  bitterly  any  attempt  to 
improve  the  divorce  laws  of  England. 
Much  has  been  done  in  this  line  even  in 
spite  of  his  earnest  opposition,  but  we 
now  owe  it  to  Mr.  Gladstone  that  there  is 
on  England's  law  books  a  statute  pro- 
viding that  if  a  wife  leaves  her  husband 
he  can  invoke  a  magistrate,  whose  duty  it 
will  then  be  to  issue  a  writ  and  give  it  to 
an  officer,  who  will  bring  her  back.  More 
than  this,  when  the  officer  has  returned 
the  woman,  the  loving  husband  has  the 
legal  right  to  "  reprove  "  her.  Just  what 
reprove  means  the  courts  have  not  yet 
determined  ;  for  in  a  recent  decision,  when 
a  costermonger  admitted  having  given  his 
lady  "a  taste  of  the  cat,"  the  prisoner 
was  discharged  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  only  needed  reproof. 

I  would  not  complain  of  this  law  if  it 
worked  both  ways  ;  but  no  wife  can  de- 
mand that  the  state  shall  return  her 
"  man"  willy-nilly.  And  if  she  admin- 
95 


Gbe  *>aunts  of 


isters  reproof  to  her  mate,  she  does  it 
■without  the  sanction  of  the  Queen. 

However,  in  justice  to  Englishmen  it 
should  be  stated  that  while  this  unique 
law  still  stands  on  the  statute-books,  it  is 
very  seldom  that  a  man  in  recent  years 
has  stooped  to  invoke  it. 

On  all  the  questions  I  have  named, 
from  slavery  to  divorce,  Mr.  Gladstone 
has  used  the  "Bible  argument."  But  as 
the  years  have  gone  by  his  mind  has  be- 
come liberalized,  and  on  many  points 
where  he  was  before  zealous  he  is  now 
silent. 

In  1841,  he  argued  with  much  skill  and 
ingenuity  that  Jews  were  not  entitled  to 
full  rights  of  citizenship,  but  in  1847, 
acknowledging  his  error,  he  took  the 
other  side. 

During  the  War  of  Secession  the  sym- 
pathies of  England's  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  were  with  the  South.  Speak- 
ing at  Newcastle  on  October  9,  1862,  he 
said  :  "  Jefferson  Davis  has  undoubtedly 
founded  a  new  nation."  But  five  years 
96 


*Cdm.  J£.  <5  lactone 


passed,  and  he  publicly  confessed  that  he 
was  wrong. 

Here  is  a  man  who,  if  he  should  err 
deeply,  is  yet  so  great,  that,  like  Cotton 
Mather,  he  might  not  hesitate  to  stand 
uncovered  on  the  street  corners  and  ask 
the  forgiveness  of  mankind.  Such  men 
are  saved  by  their  enemies.  Their  own 
good  and  the  good  of  humanity  require 
that  their  balance  of  power  shall  not 
be  too  great.  Had  the  North  gone 
down,  Gladstone  might  never  have  seen 
his  mistake.  In  this  instance  and  in 
many  others  he  has  not  been  the  leader 
of  progress,  but  its  echo  :  truth  has  been 
forced  upon  him.  His  passionate  ear- 
nestness, his  intense  volition,  his  insensi- 
bility to  moral  perspective,  his  blindness 
to  the  sense  of  proportion  might  have  led 
him  into  dangerous  excess  and  frightful 
fanatical  error,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact 
that  such  men  create  an  opposition  that 
is  their  salvation. 

To  analyze  a  character  so  complex  as 
Mr.  Gladstone's  requires  the  grasp  of 
97 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


genius.  We  speak  of  "the  duality  of 
the  human  mind,"  but  here  are  half  a 
dozen  spirits  in  one.  They  rule  in  turn, 
and  occasionally  several  of  them  struggle 
for  the  mastery. 

When  the  Fisk  Jubilee  Singers  visited 
England,  we  find  Gladstone  dropping  the 
affairs  of  State  to  hear  their  music.  He 
invited  them  to  Hawarden,  where  he  sang 
with  them.  So  impressed  was  he  with 
the  negro  melodies  that  he  anticipated 
that  idea  which  has  since  been  material- 
ized :  the  founding  of  a  national  school 
of  music  that  would  seek  to  perfect  in  a 
scientific  way  these  soul  stirring  strains. 

He  might  have  made  a  poet  of  no  mean 
order ;  for  his  devotion  to  spiritual  and 
physical  beauty  has  made  him  a  life-long 
admirer  of  Homer  and  Dante.  Those 
who  have  met  him  when  the  mood  was 
upon  him  have  heard  him  recite  by  the 
hour  from  the  Iliad  in  the  original.  And 
yet  the  theology  of  Homer  belongs  to  the 
realm  of  natural  religion  with  which  Mr. 
Gladstone  has  little  patience. 
98 


TKIlm.  JB.  (Bla&stone 


A  prominent  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons  once  said:  "The  only  two 
things  that  the  Prime  Minister  really 
cares  for  are  religion  and  finance."  The 
statement  comes  near  truth  ;  for  the  chief 
element  in  Mr.  Gladstone's  character  is 
his  devotion  to  religion  ;  and  his  signal 
successes  have  been  in  the  line  of  eco- 
nomics. He  believes  in  Free  Trade  as  the 
gospel  of  social  salvation.  He  revels  in 
figures ;  he  has  price,  value,  consumption, 
distribution,  import,  export,  fluctuation, 
all  at  his  tongue's  end,  ready  to  hurl  at 
any  one  who  ventures  on  a  hasty  general- 
ization. 

And  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  in  his 
strong  appeal  for  the  disestablishment  of 
the  Irish  Church,  the  stress  of  his  argu- 
ment was  put  on  the  point  that  the  Irish 
Church  was  not  in  the  line  of  the  apos- 
tolic succession. 

Mr.  Gladstone  is  grave,  sober,  earnest, 

proud,  passionate,  and  at  times  romantic 

to  a  rare  degree.     He   rebukes,  refutes, 

contradicts,  defies,  and  has  a  magnificent 

99 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


capacity  for  indignation.  He  will  roar 
you  like  a  lion,  his  eyes  will  flash,  and 
his  clenched  fist  will  shake  as  he  denoun- 
ces that  which  he  believes  to  be  error. 
And  yet  among  inferiors  he  will  consult, 
defer,  inquire,  and  show  a  humility,  a 
forced  suavity  that  has  given  the  carica- 
turist excuse. 

In  his  home  he  is  gentle,  amiable, 
always  kind,  social,  and  hospitable.  He 
loves  deeply,  and  his  friends  revere  him 
to  a  point  that  is  but  little  this  side  of 
idolatry.  And  surely  their  affection  is 
not  misplaced. 

Some  day  a  Plutarch,  without  a  Plu- 
tarch's prejudice  will  arise,  and  with 
malice  toward  none  but  charity  for  all, 
he  will  write  the  life  of  the  statesman, 
Gladstone.  Over  against  this  he  will  write 
the  life  of  an  American  statesman.  The 
name  he  will  choose  will  be  that  of  one 
born  in  a  log  hut  in  the  forest ;  who  was 
rocked  by  the  foot  of  a  mother  whose 
hands  meanwhile  were  busy  at  her  wheel ; 
who  had  no  schooling,  no  wise  and  influ- 
ioo 


TWlm.  B.  0laD0tone 


ential  friends ;  who  had  few  books  and 
little  time  to  read  ;  who  knew  no  formal 
religion  ;  who  never  travelled  out  of  his 
own  country ;  who  had  no  helpmeet, 
but  who  walked  solitary — alone,  a  man 
of  sorrows  ;  down  whose  homely  furrowed 
face  the  tears  of  pity  often  ran,  and  yet 
whose  name,  strange  paradox  !  stands  in 
many  minds  as  a  symbol  of  mirth. 

And  when  the  master  comes,  who  has 
the  power  to  portray  with  absolute  fidelity 
the  greatness  of  these  two  men,  will  it 
be  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  American  ? 


III. 

THE  village  of  Hawarden  is  in  Flint- 
shire, North  Wales.  It  is  seven 
miles  from  Chester.  I  walked 
the  distance  one  fine  June  morning — out 
across  the  battle-field  where  Cromwell's 
army  crushed  that  of  Charles;  and  on 
past  old  stone  walls  and  stately  elms. 

There  had  been  a  shower  the  night 
before  but  the  morning  sun  came  out 
bright  and  warm  and  made  the  rain  drops 
glisten  like  beads  as  they  clung  to  each 
leaf  and  flower.  Larks  sang  and  soared, 
and  great  flocks  of  crows  called  and  cawed 
as  they  flew  lazily  across  the  sky.  It  was 
a  time  for  silent  peace,  and  quiet  joy, 
and  serene  thankfulness  for  life  and 
health. 

I  walked  leisurely,  and  in  a  little  over 
two  hours  reached  Hawarden — a  cluster 
of  plain  stone  houses  with  climbing  vines 
102 


"QQlm.  S.  ©lactone 


and  flowers  and  gardens  that  told  of 
homely  thrift  and  simple  tastes.  I  went 
straight  to  the  old  stone  church,  which 
is  always  open,  and  rested  for  half  an 
hour  listening  to  the  organ  on  which  a 
young  girl  was  practising,  instructed  by 
a  white-haired  old  gentleman. 

The  church  is  ding}'  and  stained  inside 
and  out  by  time.  The  pews  are  irregular, 
some  curiously  carved  and  all  stiff  and 
uncomfortable.  I  walked  around  and 
read  the  inscriptions  on  the  walls,  and  all 
the  time  the  young  girl  played  and  the 
old  gentleman  beat  time  and  neither 
noticed  my  presence.  One  brass  tablet  I 
saw  was  to  a  woman  "  who  for  long  years 
was  a  faithful  servant  at  Hawarden  Castle. 
Erected  in  gratitude  by  W.  B.  G."  Near 
this  was  a  memorial  to  W.  H.  Gladstone, 
son  of  the  Premier,  who  died  in  1891. 
Then  there  were  inscriptions  to  various 
Glynnes  and  several  others  whose  names 
appear  in  English  history.  I  stood  at 
the  reading-desk  where  the  great  man 
has  so  often  read,  and  marked  the  spot 
103 


Zbc  toaunts  of 


where  William  Bwart  Gladstone  and 
Catherine  Glynne  knelt  when  they  were 
married  here  fifty-six  years  ago. 

A  short  distance  from  the  church  is  the 
entrance  to  Hawarden  Park.  This  fine 
property  was  the  inheritance  of  Mrs. 
Gladstone  ;  the  park  itself  seems  to  be- 
long to  the  public.  If  Mr.  Gladstone 
were  a  plain  citizen,  people  of  course 
would  not  come  by  hundreds  and  picnic 
on  his  preserve,  but  serving  the  State  he 
and  his  possessions  belong  to  the  people, 
and  this  democratic  familiarity  is  rather 
pleasing  than  otherwise.  So  great  has 
been  the  throng  in  times  past,  that  an 
iron  fence  had  to  be  placed  about  the  ivy 
covered  ruins  of  the  ancient  castle,  to 
protect  it  from  those  who  threatened  to 
carry  it  away  by  the  pocketful.  A  wall 
has  also  been  put  around  the  present 
"  castle  "  (more  properly  house).  This 
was  done  some  years  ago,  I  was  told  by 
the  butler,  after  a  torchlight  procession 
of  a  thousand  enthusiastic  admirers  had 
come  down  from  Liverpool  and  tramped 
104 


TWlm.  36.  ©lactone 


Mrs.  Gladstone's  flowers  into  "  smither- 
eens." 

The  park  contains  many  hundred  acres, 
and  is  as  beautiful  as  an  English  park 
can  be,  and  this  is  praise  superlative. 
Flocks  of  sheep  wander  over  the  soft 
green  turf,  and  beneath  the  spreading  trees 
are  sleek  cows,  with  big  open  eyes  that 
seem  used  to  visitors  and  come  up  to  be 
petted. 

Occasional  signs  are  seen:  " Please 
spare  the  trees."  Some  people  suppose 
that  this  is  an  injunction  which  Mr. 
Gladstone  himself  has  never  observed. 
But  when  in  his  tree-cutting  days,  no 
monarch  of  the  forest  was  ever  felled  with- 
out its  case  being  fully  tried  by  the  en- 
tire household.  Ruskin,  once  visiting  at 
Hawarden,  sat  as  judge,  and  after  listen- 
ing to  the  evidence  gave  sentence  against 
several  trees  that  were  rotten  at  the  core 
or  over-shadowing  their  betters.  Then 
the  Prime  Minister  shouldered  his  faith- 
ful "snickersee"  and  went  forth  as 
executioner. 

105 


Zbe  tmunts  of 


I  looked  in  vain  for  stumps,  and  on 
inquiry  was  told  that  they  were  all  dug 
out  and  the  ground  levelled  so  no  trace 
was  left  of  the  offender. 

The  "  lady  of  the  house  "  at  Hawarden 
is  the  second  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gladstone.  All  accounts  agree  that  she 
is  a  most  capable  and  excellent  woman. 
She  is  her  father's  "  home  secretary " 
and  confidante,  and  in  his  absence  takes 
full  charge  of  the  mail  and  looks  after 
important  business  affairs.  Her  husband, 
the  Rev.  Harry  Drew,  is  rector  of  Hawar- 
den Church.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing Mr.  Drew  and  found  him  very  cordial 
and  perfectly  willing  to  talk  about  the 
great  man  who  is  grandfather  to  his  baby. 
We  also  talked  of  America  and  I  soon 
surmised  that  Mr.  Drew's  ideas  of  "The 
States"  were  largely  derived  from  a  visit 
to  the  Wild  West  Show.  So  I  put  the 
question  to  him  direct : 

"  Did  you  see  Buffalo  Bill  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Gladstone  go?" 
106 


TRflm.  B.  (BlaDstone 


"Not  only  once  but  three  times,  and 
he  cheered  as  loudly  as  any  boy." 

The  Gladstone  residence  is  a  great, 
rambling,  stone  structure  to  which  addi- 
tions have  been  made  from  one  generation 
to  another.  The  towers  and  battlements 
are  merely  architectural  appendicular,  but 
the  effect  of  the  whole,  when  viewed  from 
a  distance,  rising  out  of  its  wealth  of  green 
and  backed  by  the  forest,  is  very  impos- 
ing. 

I  entered  only  the  spacious  front  hall- 
way and  one  room — the  library.  Book 
shelves  and  books  and  more  books  were 
everywhere  ;  several  desks  of  different 
designs  (one  an  American  roll-top),  as  if 
the  owner  transacted  business  at  one, 
translated  Homer  at  another,  and  wrote 
social  letters  from  a  third.  Then  there 
were  several  large  Japanese  vases,  a  tiger 
skin,  beautiful  rugs,  a  few  large  paintings, 
and  in  a  rack  a  full  dozen  axes  and  twice 
as  many  "  sticks." 

The  whole  place  has  an  air  of  easy 
luxury,  that  speaks  of  peace  and  plenty, 
107 


TKHm.  j£.  ©laDatone 


of  quiet  aud  rest,  of  gentle  thoughts  and 
calm  desires. 

As  I  walked  across  toward  the  village 
the  church  bell  slowly  pealed  the  hour  ; 
over  the  distant  valley  night  hovered ; 
a  streak  of  white  mist,  trailing  like  a  thin 
veil,  marked  the  passage  of  the  murmuring 
brook.  I  thought  of  the  grand  old  man 
over  whose  domain  I  was  now  treading, 
and  my  wonder  was,  not  that  one  should 
live  so  long  and  still  be  vigorous,  but  that 
a  man  should  live  in  such  an  idyllic  spot, 
with  love  and  books  to  keep  him  com- 
pany, and  yet  grow  old. 


108 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER. 


109 


I  believe  that  these  works  of  Turner's  are  at 
their  first  appearing   as    perfect   as   those    of 
Phidias  or  Leonardo  ;  that  is  to  say,  incapable  of 
any  improvement  conceivable  by  human  mind. 
John  Ruskin. 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER. 


THE  beauty  of  the  upper  Thames 
with  its  fairy  house-boats  and 
green  banks  has  been  sung  by 
poets,  but  rash  is  the  minstrel  who  tunes 
his  lyre  to  sound  the  praises  of  this 
muddy  stream  in  the  vicinity  of  Chelsea. 
As  yellow  as  the  Tiber  and  thick  as  the 
Missouri  after  a  flood,  it  comes  twice  a 
day  bearing  upon  its  tossing  tide  a  unique 
assortment  of  uncanny  sights  and  sick- 
ening smells  from  the  swarming  city  of 
men  below. 

Chelsea  was  once  a  country  village  six 
miles  from  London  Bridge.  Now  the 
far-reaching  arms  of  the  metropolis  have 
taken  it  as  her  own. 

Chelsea  may  be  likened  to  some  rare 
in 


Gbe  Ibaunts  ot 


spinster,  grown  old  with  years  and  good 
works,  and  now  having  a  safe  home  with 
a  rich  and  powerful  benefactress.  Yet 
Chelsea  is  not  handsome  in  her  old  age, 
and  Chelsea  was  not  pretty  in  youth,  nor 
fair  to  view  in  middle  life ;  but  Chelsea 
has  been  the  foster  mother  of  several  of 
the  rarest  and  fairest  souls  who  have  ever 
made  the  earth  pilgrimage. 

And  the  greatness  of  genius  still  rests 
upon  Chelsea.  As  we  walk  slowly 
through  its  winding  ways,  by  the  edge 
of  its  troubled  waters,  among  dark  and 
crooked  turns,  through  curious  courts, 
by  old  gateways  and  piles  of  steepled 
stone,  where  flocks  of  pigeons  wheel, 
and  bells  chime,  and  organs  peal,  and 
winds  sigh,  we  know  that  all  has  been 
sanctified  by  their  presence.  And  their 
spirits  abide  with  us,  and  the  splendid 
beauty  of  their  visions  is  about  us.  For 
the  stones  beneath  our  feet  have  been 
hallowed  by  their  tread,  and  the  walls 
have  borne  their  shadows  ;  so  all  mean 
things  are  transfigured  and  over  all  these 
112 


5.  d&.  M*  burner 


plain    and    narrow    streets    their    glory 
gleams. 

And  it  is  the  great  men  and  they  alone 
that  can  render  a  place  sacred.  Chelsea 
is  now  to  the  lovers  of  the  Beautiful  a 
sacred  name,  a  sacred  soil ;  a  place  of  pil- 
grimage where  certain  gods  of  Art  once 
lived,  and  loved,  and  worked,  and  died. 

Sir  Thomas  Moore  lived  here  and  had 
for  a  frequent  guest  Erasmus.  Hans 
Sloane  began  in  Chelsea  the  collection  of 
curiosities  which  has  now  developed  into 
the  British  Museum.  Bishop  Atterbury, 
(who  claimed  that  Dryden  was  a  greater 
poet  than  Shakespeare),  Dean  Swift,  and 
Dr.  Arbuthnot,  all  lived  in  Church  St.; 
Richard  Steele  just  around  the  corner  and 
Leigh  Hunt  in  Cheyne  Row  ;  but  it  was 
from  another  name  that  the  little  street 
was  to  be  immortalized. 

If  France  constantly  has  forty  Immor- 
tals in  the  flesh,  surely  it  is  a  modest 
claim  to  say  that  Chelsea  has  three  for 
all  time  :  Thomas  Carlyle,  George  Kliot, 
and  Joseph  Mallord  William  Turner. 
"3 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


Turner's  father  was  a  barber.  His 
youth  was  passed  in  poverty,  and  his  ad- 
vantages for  education  were  very  slight. 
And  all  this  in  the  crowded  city  of  Lon- 
don where  merit  may  knock  long  and 
still  not  be  heard,  and  in  a  country  where 
wealth  and  title  count  for  much. 

When  a  boy,  barefoot  and  ragged,  he 
would  wander  away  alone  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  and  dream  dreams  about 
wonderful  palaces  and  beautiful  scenes ; 
and  then  he  would  trace  with  a  stick  in 
the  sands,  endeavoring,  with  mud,  to 
make  plain  to  the  eye  the  things  that  his 
soul  saw. 

His  mother  was  quite  sure  that  no  good 
could  come  from  this  vagabondish  nature, 
and  she  did  not  spare  the  rod,  for  she  feared 
that  the  desire  to  scrawl  and  daub  would 
spoil  the  child.  But  he  was  a  stubborn 
lad  with  a  pug  nose  and  big,  dreamy,  won- 
dering eyes  and  a  heavy  jaw  ;  and  when 
parents  see  that  they  have  such  a  son 
they  had  better  hang  up  the  rod  behind 
the  kitchen  door  and  lay  aside  force  and 
114 


\ 

5.  jfl&*  WL.  burner 


cease  scolding.  For  love  is  better  than 
a  cat-o'-nine-tails  and  sympathy  saves 
more  souls  than  threats. 

The  elder  Turner  considered  that  the 
proper  use  of  a  brush  was  to  lather 
chins.  But  the  boy  thought  differently, 
and  once  surreptitiously  took  one  of  his 
father's  brushes  to  paint  a  picture  ;  the 
brush  on  being  returned  to  its  cup  was 
used  the  next  day  upon  a  worthy  haber- 
dasher, whose  cheeks  were  shortly  col- 
ored a  vermilion  that  matched  his  nose. 
This  lost  the  barber  a  customer  and  se- 
cured the  boy  a  thrashing. 

Young  Turner  did  not  always  wash  his 
father's  shop  windows  well,  nor  sweep  off 
the  sidewalk  properly.  Like  all  boys  he 
would  rather  work  for  some  one  else  than 
"  his  folks." 

He  used  to  run  errands  for  an  engraver 
by  the  name  of  Smith— John  Raphael 
Smith.  Once  when  Smith  sent  the  bar- 
ber's boy  with  a  letter  to  a  certain  art  gal- 
lery with  orders  to  "  get  the  answer  and 
hurry  back,  mind  you  !  "  the  boy  forgot 
H5 


XLbc  1baunt6  of 


to  get  the  answer  and  to  hurry  back. 
Then  another  boy  was  despatched  after 
the  first,  and  boy  Number  Two  found  boy 
Number  One  sitting,  with  staring  eyes 
and  open  mouth,  in  the  art  gallery  before 
a  painting  of  Claude  Lorraine's.  When 
boy  Number  One  was  at  last  half  forcibly 
dragged  away  and  reached  the  shop  of 
his  master  he  got  his  ears  well  cuffed  for 
his  forgetfulness.  But  from  that  day 
forth  he  was  not  the  same  being  that  he 
had  been  before  his  eyes  fell  on  that 
Claude  Lorraine. 

He  was  transformed,  as  much  so  as  was 
Lazarus  after  he  was  called  from  beyond 
the  portals  of  death  and  had  come  back 
to  earth,  bearing  in  his  heart  the  secrets 
of  the  grave. 

From  that  time  he  thought  of  Claude 
Lorraine  during  the  day  and  dreamed  of 
him  at  night,  and  he  stole  his  way  into 
every  exhibition  where  a  Claude  was  to 
be  seen.  And  now  I  wish  that  Claude 
Lorraine  was  the  subject  of  this  sketch, 
as  well  as  Turner,  for  his  life  is  a  picture 
116 


3*  fl&.  TKIl*  burner 


full  of  sweetest  poetry,  framed  in  a  world 
of  dullest  prose. 

The  eyes  of  this  boy  whom  they  had 
thought  dreamy,  dull,  and  listless,  now 
shone  with  a  different  light.  He  thirsted 
to  achieve,  to  do,  to  become — yes,  to  be- 
come a  greater  painter  than  Claude  Lor- 
raine. His  employer  saw  the  change  and 
smiled  at  it,  but  he  allowed  the  lad  to  put 
in  back-grounds  and  add  the  skies  to 
cheap  prints,  just  because  the  youngster 
teased  to  do  it. 

Then  one  day  a  certain  patron  of  the 
shop  came,  and  looked  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  Turner  boy  and  he  said,  "  He  has 
skill — perhaps  talent." 

And  I  think  that  the  recording  angel 
should  give  this  man  a  separate  page  on 
the  Book  of  Remembrance  and  write 
his  name  in  illumined  colors,  for  he  gave 
young  Turner  access  to  his  own  col- 
lection and  to  his  library,  and  he  never 
cuffed  him  nor  kicked  him  nor  called  him 
dunce  ;  whereat  the  boy  was  much  sur- 
prised. But  he  encouraged  the  youth  to 
117 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


sketch  a  picture  in  water  colors  and  then 
he  bought  the  picture  and  paid  him  ten 
shillings  for  it ;  and  the  name  of  this  man 
was  Doctor  Munro. 

The  next  year,  when  young  Turner  was 
fourteen,  Dr.  Munro  had  him  admitted  to 
the  Royal  Academy  as  a  student,  and  in 
1790  he  exhibited  a  water  color  of  the 
Archbishop's  palace  at  L,ambeth. 

The  picture  took  no  prize,  and,  doubt- 
less was  not  worthy  of  one  but  from 
now  on  Joseph  M.  W.Turner  was  an  artist, 
and  other  hands  had  to  sweep  the  barber 
shop. 

But  he  sold  few  pictures — they  were 
not  popular.  Other  artists  scorned  him, 
possibly  intuitively  fearing  him,  for  me- 
diocrity always  fears  when  the  ghost  of 
genius  does  not  down  at  its  bidding. 

Then  Turner  was  accounted  unsociable  : 
besides  he  was  ragged,  uncouth,  indepen- 
dent, and  did  not  conform  to  the  ways  of 
society ;  so  the  select  circle  cast  him  out, 
more  properly  speaking  did  not  let  him 
in. 

118 


3.  /B.  "HO.  Gurnet 


Still  he  worked  and  exhibited  at  every 
Academy  Exhibition,  yet  he  was  often 
hungry,  and  the  London  fog  crept  cold 
and  damp  through  his  threadbare  clothes. 
But  he  toiled  on,  for  Claude  Lorraine  was 
ever  before  him. 

In  1802,  when  twenty-seven  years  of 
age,  he  visited  France  and  made  a  tour 
through  Switzerland,  tramping  over  many 
long  miles  with  his  painting  kit  on  his 
back,  and  he  brought  back  rich  treasures 
in  way  of  sketches  and  quickened  imagi- 
nation. 

In  the  years  following  he  took  many 
such  trips,  and  came  to  know  Venice, 
Rome,  Florence,  and  Paris  as  perfectly  as 
his  own  London. 

When  thirty-three  years  of  age  he  was 
still  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  Claude 
Lorraine.  His  pictures  painted  at  this 
time  are  evidence  of  his  ideal,  and  his 
book  Liber  Studiorum,  issued  in  1808,  is 
modelled  after  the  Liber  Veritatis.  But 
the  book  surpasses  Claude's,  and  Turner 
knew  it,  and  this  may  have  led  him  to 
119 


Gbe  tmunts  of 


burst  his  shackles  and  cast  loose  from  his 
idol.  For  in  1815  we  find  him  working 
according  to  his  own  ideas,  showing  an 
originality  and  audacity  in  conception 
and  execution  that  made  him  the  butt  of 
the  critics,  and  caused  consternation  to 
rage  through  the  studios  of  competitors. 

Gradually  it  dawned  upon  a  few  scat- 
tered collectors  that  things  so  strongly 
condemned  must  have  merit,  for  why 
should  the  pack  bay  so  loudly  if  there 
were  no  quarry  !  So  to  have  a  Turner 
was  at  least  something  for  your  friends 
to  discuss. 

Then  carriages  began  to  stop  before  the 
dingy  building  at  47  Queen  Anne  St., 
and  broadcloth  and  satin  mounted  the 
creaking  stairs  to  the  studio.  It  hap- 
pened about  this  time  that  Turner's  prices 
began  to  increase.  Like  the  sibyl  of  old, 
if  a  customer  said  "I  do  not  want  it," 
the  painter  put  an  extra  ten  pounds 
on  the  price.  For  Dido  building  Car- 
thage Turner's  original  price  was  five 
hundred  pounds.  People  came  to  see  the 
120 


3.  d&.  TKH.  Gurnet 


picture  and  they  said,  "  The  price  is 
too  high."  Next  day  Turner's  price  for 
the  Carthage  was  one  thousand  pounds. 
Finally  Sir  Robert  Peel  offered  the 
painter  five  thousand  pounds  for  the 
picture,  but  Turner  said  he  had  decided 
to  keep  it  for  himself,  and  he  did. 

In  the  forepart  of  his  career  he  sold 
few  pictures  ;  for  the  simple  reason  that 
no  one  wanted  them.  And  he  sold  few 
pictures  during  the  latter  years  of  his 
life,  for  the  reason  that  his  prices  were  so 
high  that  none  but  the  very  rich  could 
buy.  First  the  public  scorned  Turner. 
Next  Turner  scorned  the  public.  In  the 
beginning  it  would  not  buy  his  pictures, 
and  later  it  could  not. 

A  frivolous  public  and  shallow  press 
from  his  first  exhibition,  when  fifteen 
years  of  age,  to  his  last,  when  seventy, 
made  sport  of  his  originalities.  But  for 
merit  there  is  a  recompense  in  sneers, 
and  a  benefit  in  sarcasms,  and  a  compen- 
sation in  hate  :  for  when  these  things 
get  too  pronounced  a  champion  appears. 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


And  so  it  was  with  Turner.  Next  to 
having  a  Boswell  write  one's  life  what  is 
better  than  a  Rusk  in  to  uphold  one's 
cause ! 

Success  came  slowly  ;  his  wants  were 
few,  but  his  ambition  never  slackened, 
and  finally  the  dreams  of  his  youth  be- 
came the  realities  of  his  manhood. 

At  twenty  Turner  loved  a  beautiful 
girl — they  became  engaged.  He  went 
away  on  a  tramp  sketching  tour  and 
wrote  his  lady-love  just  one  short 
letter  each  month.  He  believed  that 
"absence  only  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder,"  not  knowing  that  this  statement 
is  only  the  vagary  of  a  poet.  When  he 
returned  the  lady  was  betrothed  to  an- 
other. He  gave  the  pair  his  blessing 
and  remained  a  bachelor — a  very  con- 
firmed bachelor. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  reason  his  fiancie 
proved  untrue  was  not  through  lack 
of  the  epistles  he  wrote  her,  but  on  ac- 
count of  them.  In  the  British  Museum 
I  examined  several  letters  written  by 
122 


5.  d&.  TKH.  burner 


Turner.  They  appeared  very  much  like 
copy  for  a  Josh  Billings  Almanac.  Such 
originality  in  spelling,  punctuation,  and 
use  of  capitals  !  It  was  admirable  in 
its  uniqueness.  Turner  did  not  think  in 
words — he  could  only  think  in  paint. 
But  the  young  lady  did  not  know  this, 
and  when  a  letter  came  from  her  homely 
little  lover  she  was  shocked,  then  she 
laughed,  then  she  showed  these  letters  to 
a  nice  young  man  who  was  clerk  to  a 
fishmonger  and  he  laughed,  then  they 
both  laughed.  Then  this  nice  young 
man  and  this  beautiful  young  lady  be- 
came engaged,  and  they  were  married  at 
St.  Andrew's  on  a  lovely  May  morning. 
And  they  lived  happily  ever  afterward. 

Turner  was  small,  and  in  appearance 
plain.  Yet  he  was  big  enough  to  paint 
a  big  picture,  and  he  was  not  so  homely 
as  to  frighten  away  all  beautiful  women. 
But  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  tells  us: 
"  Fortunate  in  many  things,  Turner  was 
lamentably  unfortunate  in  this  :  that 
throughout  his  whole  life  he  never  came 
123 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


under  the  ennobling  and  refining  influ- 
ence of  a  good  woman." 

Like  Plato,  Michael  Angelo,  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  and  his  own  Claude  Lorraine,  he 
was  wedded  to  his  art.  But  at  sixty-five 
his  genius  suddenly  burst  forth  afresh, 
and  his  work,  Mr.  Ruskin  says,  at  that 
time  exceeded  in  daring  brilliancy  and 
in  the  rich  flowering  of  imagination  any- 
thing that  he  had  previously  done.  Mr. 
Ruskin  could  give  no  reason,  but  rumor 
says:  "A  woman." 

The  one  weakness  of  our  hero,  that 
hung  to  him  for  life,  was  the  idea  that  he 
could  write  poetry.  The  tragedian  al- 
ways thinks  he  can  succeed  in  comedy, 
the  comedian  spends  hours  in  his  garret 
rehearsing  tragedy  ;  most  preachers  have 
an  idea  that  they  could  have  made  a 
quick  fortune  in  business,  and  many  busi- 
ness men  are  very  sure  that  if  they  had 
taken  to  the  pulpit  there  would  now  be 
fewer  empty  pews.  So  the  greatest  land- 
scape painter  of  recent  times  imagined 
himself  a  poet.  Hamerton  says  that 
124 


5.  d&.  "001.  burner 


Turner's  verse  would  serve  well  for  re- 
markable specimens  of  grammar,  spell- 
ing, and  construction  to  be  given  to  little 
boys  to  correct. 

One  spot  in  Turner's  life  over  which  I 
like  to  linger  is  his  friendship  with  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  They  collaborated  in  the 
production  of  Provincial  Antiquities 
and  spent  many  happy  hours  together 
tramping  over  Scottish  moors  and  moun- 
tains. Sir  Walter  lived  out  his  days  in 
happy  ignorance  concerning  the  art  of 
painting,  and  although  he  liked  the  so- 
ciety of  Turner,  he  confessed  that  it  was 
quite  beyond  his  ken  why  people  bought 
his  pictures.  "And  as  for  your  books," 
said  Turner,  "the  covers  of  some  are 
certainly  very  pretty." 

Yet  these  men  took  a  satisfaction  in 
each  other's  society,  such  as  brothers 
might  enjoy,  but  without  either  appreci- 
ating the  greatness  of  the  other. 

Turner's  temperament  was  audacious, 
self-centred,  self-reliant,  eager  for  suc- 
cess and  fame,  yet  at  the  same  time  scorn- 
125 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


ing  public  opinion — a  paradox  often  found 
in  the  artistic  mind  of  the  first  class; 
silent  always — with  a  bitter  silence,  dis- 
daining to  tell  his  meaning  when  the 
critics  could  not  perceive  it. 

He  was  above  all  things  always  the 
artist,  never  the  realist.  The  realist 
pictures  the  things  he  sees  ;  the  artist 
expresses  that  which  he  feels.  Children, 
and  all  simple  folk  who  use  pen,  pencil, 
or  brush  describe  the  things  they  behold. 
As  intellect  develops  and  goes  more  in 
partnership  with  hand,  imagination  soars 
and  things  are  outlined  that  no  man  can 
see  except  he  be  able  to  perceive  the 
invisible.  To  appreciate  a  work  of  art 
you  must  feel  as  the  artist  felt. 

Now  it  is  very  plain  that  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  people  are  not  capable  of  this 
high  sense  of  sublimity  which  the  crea- 
tive artist  feels  ;  and  therefore  they  do 
not  understand,  and  not  understanding 
they  wax  merry,  or  cynical,  or  sarcastic, 
or  wrathful,  or  envious ;  or  they  pass  by 
unmoved.  And  I  maintain  that  those 
126 


5.  Os*  Wl.  burner 


who  pass  by  unmoved  are  more  righteous 
than  they  who  scoff. 

If  I  should  attempt  to  explain  to  my 
little  girl  the  awe  I  feel  when  I  contem- 
plate the  miracle  of  maternity,  she  would 
probably  change  the  subject  by  prattling 
to  me  about  a  kitten  that  she  saw  lapping 
milk  from  a  blue  saucer.  If  I  should 
attempt  to  explain  to  some  men  what  I 
feel  when  I  contemplate  the  miracle  of 
maternity,  they  would  smile  and  turn  it 
all  into  an  unspeakable  jest.  Is  not  the 
child  nearer  to  God  than  the  man  ? 

We  thus  see  why  Browning  is  only  a 
joke  to  many,  Whitman  an  eccentric, 
Dante  insane,  and  Turner  a  pretender. 
These  have  all  sought  to  express  things 
which  the  many  cannot  feel,  and  conse- 
quently they  have  been,  and  are,  the  butt 
of  jokes  and  jibes  innumerable.  "  Ex- 
cept ye  become  as  little  children,"  etc. — 
And  yet  the  scoffers  are  often  people  of 
worth.  Nothing  shows  the  limitation  of 
humanity  as  this  :  genius  often  does 
not  appreciate  genius.  The  inspired, 
127 


XLbc  f>aunts  of 


strangely  enough,  are  like  the  fools, 
they  do  not  recognize  inspiration. 

An  Englishman  called  on  Voltaire  and 
found  him  in  bed  reading  Shakespeare. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  asked  the 
visitor. 

"  Your  Shakespeare  ! "  said  the  philos- 
opher :  and  as  he  answered  he  flung  the 
book  across  the  room. 

"He 'snot  my  Shakespeare,"  said  the 
Englishman. 

Greene,  Rymer,  Dryden,  Warburton, 
and  Dr.  Johnson  used  collectively  or  in- 
dividually the  following  expressions  in 
describing  the  work  of  the  author  of 
Hamlet:  conceit,  overreach,  word-play, 
extravagance,  overdone,  absurdity,  obscu- 
rity, puerility,  bombast,  idiocy,  untruth, 
improbability,  drivel. 

Byron  wrote  from  Florence  to  Murray  : 
"I  know  nothing  of  painting,  and  I  ab- 
hor and  spit  upon  all  saints  and  so-called 
spiritual  subjects  that  I  see  portrayed  in 
these  churches." 

But  the  past  is  so  crowded  with  vitu- 
128 


3.  d&.  1GI.  Gurnet 


peration  that  it  is  difficult  to  select — 
besides  that  we  do  not  wish  to  ;  but  let 
us  take  a  sample  of  arrogance  from  yes- 
terday to  prove  our  point  and  then  drop 
the  theme  for  something  pleasanter. 

Pew  and  pulpit  have  fallen  over  each 
other  for  the  privilege  of  hitting  Dar- 
win ;  a  Bishop  warns  his  congregation 
that  Emerson  is  "  dangerous  "  ;  Spurgeon 
calls  Shelley  a  sensualist ;  Dr.  Buckley 
speaks  of  Susan  B.  Anthony  as  the  leader 
of  "the  short-haired";  Talmage  cracks 
jokes  about  evolution,  referring  feelingly 
to  "  monkey  ancestry "  ;  and  a  promi- 
nent divine  of  England  writes  the  recent 
World's  Congress  of  Religions  down  as 
' '  pious  wax-works. "  These  things  being 
true,  and  all  the  sentiments  quoted  com- 
ing from  "  good "  but  blindly  zealous 
men,  is  it  a  wonder  that  the  Artist  is  not 
understood  ? 

A  brilliant  picture    called    Cologne — 

Evening,   attracted   much    attention    at 

the  Academy  Exhibition   of  1826.     One 

day  the  people  who  so  often  collected 

129 


Gbe  founts  of 


around  Turner's  work  were  shocked  to 
see  that  the  beautiful  canvas  had  lost  its 
brilliancy,  and  evidently  had  been  tam- 
pered with  by  some  miscreant.  A  friend 
ran  to  inform  Turner  of  the  bad  news : 
"Don't  say  anything.  I  only  smirched 
it  with  lampblack.  It  was  spoiling  the 
effect  of  Laurence's  picture  that  hung 
next  to  it.  The  black  will  all  wash  off 
after  the  exhibition." 

And  his  tender  treatment  of  his  aged 
father  shows  the  gentle  side  of  his  nature. 
The  old  barber,  whose  trembling  hand 
could  no  longer  hold  a  razor,  wished  to 
remain  under  his  son's  roof  in  guise  of 
a  servant,  but  the  son  said  :  <c  No,  we 
fought  the  world  together,  and  now  that 
it  seeks  to  do  me  honor  you  shall  share 
all  the  benefits."  And  Turner  never 
smiled  when  the  little  wizened  old  man 
would  whisper  to  some  visitor:  "Yes, 
yes,  Joseph  is  the  greatest  artist  in  Eng- 
land, and  I  am  his  father." 

Turner  had  a  way  of  sending  ten-pound 
notes  in  blank  envelopes  to  artists  in  dis- 
130 


$.  flb.  WL  burner 

tress,  and  he  did  this  so  frequently  that 
the  news  got  out  finally,  but  never  through 
Turner's  telling,  and  then  he  had  to  adopt 
other  methods  of  doing  good  by  stealth. 

I  do  not  contend  that  Turner's  charac- 
ter was  immaculate,  but  still  it  is  very 
probable  that  worldlings  do  not  appre- 
ciate what  a  small  part  of  this  great 
genius  touched  the  mire. 

To  prove  the  sordidness  of  the  man  one 
critic  tells,  with  visage  awfully  solemn, 
how  Turner  once  gave  an  engraving  to  a 
friend  and  then  after  a  year  sent  demand- 
ing it  back.  But  to  a  person  with  a 
groat's  worth  of  wit  the  matter  is  plain  : 
the  dreamy,  abstracted  artist  who  bumped 
into  his  next  door  neighbors  on  the  street 
and  never  knew  them,  forgot  he  had  given 
the  picture  and  believed  he  had  only 
loaned  it.  This  is  made  still  more  appar- 
ent by  the  fact,  that  when  he  sent  for  the 
engraving  in  question,  he  administered  a 
rebuke  to  the  man  for  keeping  it  so  long. 
The  poor  dullard  who  received  the  note 
flew  into  a  rage — returned  the  picture — 
131 


XTbe  tmunts  of 


sent  his  compliments  and  begged  the 
great  artist  to  "  take  your  picture  and  go 
to  the  devil." 

Then  certain  scribblers  who  through 
mental  disease  had  lost  the  capacity  for 
mirth,  dipped  their  pen  in  aqua  fortis 
and  wrote  of  the  "innate  meanness," 
the  "malice  prepense,"  and  the  "Old 
Adam"  which  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
Turner.  No  one  laughed  except  a  few 
Irishmen,  and  an  American  or  two,  who 
chanced  to  hear  of  the  story. 

Of  Turner's  many  pictures  I  will  men- 
tion in  detail  but  two,  both  of  which  are 
to  be  seen  on  the  walls  of  the  National 
Gallery.  First  The  Old  Temeraire. 
This  warship  had  been  sold  out  of  ser- 
vice and  was  being  towed  away  to  be 
broken  up.  The  scene  was  photographed 
on  Turner's  brain,  and  he  immortalized 
it  on  canvas.  We  cannot  do  better  than 
to  borrow  the  words  of  Mr.  Ruskin  : 

"  Of  all  pictures  not  visibly  involving 
human  pain  this  is  the  most  pathetic 
ever  painted. 

132 


5.  d&.  "TCH.  burner 


"  The  utmost  pensiveness  which  can 
ordinarily  be  given  to  a  landscape  de- 
pends on  adjuncts  of  ruin,  but  no  ruin 
was  ever  so  affecting  as  the  gliding  of 
this  ship  to  her  grave.  This  particular 
ship,  crowned  in  the  Trafalgar  hour  of 
trial  with  chief  victory — surely,  if  ever 
anything  without  a  soul  deserved  honor 
or  affection  we  owe  them  here.  Surely 
some  sacred  care  might  have  been  left  in 
our  thoughts  for  her ;  some  quiet  space 
amid  the  lapse  of  Buglish  waters  !  Nay, 
not  so.  We  have  stern  keepers  to  trust 
her  glory  to — the  fire  and  the  worm.  Nev- 
ermore shall  sunset  lay  golden  robe  upon 
her,  nor  starlight  tremble  on  the  waves 
that  part  at  her  gliding.  Perhaps  where 
the  low  gate  opens  to  some  cottage  gar- 
den, the  tired  traveller  may  ask,  idly, 
why  the  moss  grows  so  green  on  the  rug- 
ged wood  ;  and  even  the  sailor's  child 
may  not  know  that  the  night  dew  lies 
deep  in  the  war  rents  of  the  old  Teme- 
raire." 

The  Burial  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  at 
133 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


Sea  has  brought  tears  to  many  eyes.  Yet 
there  is  no  burial.  The  ship  is  far  away 
in  the  gloom  of  the  offing ;  you  cannot 
distinguish  a  single  figure  on  her  decks  ; 
but  you  behold  her  great  sails  standing 
out  against  the  leaden  blackness  of  the 
night  and  you  feel  that  out  there  a  certain 
scene  is  being  enacted.  And  if  you  lis- 
ten closely  you  can  hear  the  solemn  voice 
of  the  captain  as  he  reads  the  burial  ser- 
vice. Then  there  is  a  pause — a  swift  slid- 
ing sound — a  splash  and  all  is  over. 

Turner  left  to  the  British  Nation  by 
his  will  nineteen  thousand  pencil  and 
water  color  sketches  and  one  hundred 
large  canvases.  These  pictures  are  now 
to  be  seen  in  the  National  Gallery  in 
rooms  set  apart  and  sacred  to  Turner's 
work.  For  fear  that  it  may  be  thought 
that  the  number  of  sketches  mentioned 
above  is  a  misprint,  let  us  say  that  if  he 
had  produced  one  picture  a  day  for  fifty 
years,  it  would  not  equal  the  number  of 
pieces  bestowed  by  his  will  on  the  nation. 

This  of  course  takes  no  account  of  the 
134 


3.  jflfc.  m  burner 


pictures  sold  during  his  lifetime,  and,  as 
he  left  a  fortune  of  one  hundred  and  forty- 
four  thousand  pounds  ($720,000.00),  we 
may  infer  that  not  all  of  his  pictures  were 
given  away. 

At  Chelsea  I  stood  in  the  little  room 
where  he  breathed  his  last,  that  bleak  day 
in  1 85 1.  The  unlettered  but  motherly 
old  woman  who  took  care  of  him  in  those 
last  days  never  guessed  his  greatness  ; 
none  in  the  house  or  neighborhood  knew. 

To  them  he  was  only  Mr.  Booth,  an 
eccentric  old  man  of  moderate  means  who 
liked  to  muse,  read,  and  play  with  chil- 
dren. He  had  no  callers,  no  friends  ;  he 
went  to  the  city  every  day  and  came  back 
at  night.  He  talked  but  little,  he  was 
absent-minded,  he  smoked  and  thought 
and  smiled  and  muttered  to  himself.  He 
never  went  to  church  ;  but  once  one  of 
the  lodgers  asked  him  what  he  thought 
of  God. 

"God,  God — what  do  I  know  of  God, 
what  does  any  one  !  He  is  our  life — He 
is  the  All,  but  we  need  not  fear  Him — 
135 


Gbe  tmunts  of 


all  we  can  do  is  to  speak  the  truth  and  do 
our  work.  To-morrow  we  go — where  ?  I 
know  not,  but  I  am  not  afraid." 

Of  art,  to  these  strangers  he  would 
never  speak.  Once  they  urged  him  to 
go  with  them  to  an  exhibition  at  Kensing- 
ton, but  he  smiled  feebly  as  he  lit  his 
pipe  and  said,  "An  Art  Exhibition  ?  no, 
no,  a  man  can  show  on  a  canvas  so  little  of 
what  he  feels,  it  is  not  worth  the  while." 

At  last  he  died — passed  peacefully  away, 
and  his  attorney  came  and  took  charge 
of  his  remains. 

Many  are  the  hard  words  that  have 
been  flung  off  by  heedless  tongues  about 
Turner's  taking  an  assumed  name  and 
living  in  obscurity,  but  "what  you  call 
fault  I  call  accent."  Surely  if  a  great 
man  and  world  famous,  desires  to  escape 
the  flatterers  and  the  silken  mesh  of  so- 
called  society  and  live  the  life  of  simplicity 
he  has  a  right  to  do  so.  Again,  Turner 
was  a  very  rich  man  in  his  old  age  ;  he  did 
much  for  struggling  artists  and  assisted 
aspiring  merit  in  many  ways.  So  it  came 
136 


5.  to.  Tld,  Gurnet 


about  that  his  mail  was  burdened  with 
begging  letters,  and  his  life  made  miser- 
able by  appeals  from  impecunious  per- 
sons, good  and  bad,  and  from  churches, 
societies,  and  associations  without  number. 
He  decided  to  flee  them  all ;  and  he  did. 

The  Carthage  mentioned  on  a  former 
page  is  one  of  his  finest  works,  and  he 
esteemed  it  so  highly  that  he  requested 
that  when  death  came  his  body  should  be 
buried,  wrapped  in  its  magnificent  folds. 
But  the  wish  was  disregarded. 

His  remains  rest  in  the  crypt  of  St. 
Paul's,  beside  the  dust  of  Reynolds. 
His  statue,  in  marble,  adorns  a  niche  in 
the  great  cathedral,  and  his  name  is 
secure  high  on  the  roll  of  honor. 

And  if  for  no  other  reason  the  name 
and  fame  of  Chelsea  should  be  deathless 
as  the  home  of  Turner. 


137 


jcmat: •Jniji ', 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


139 


They  are  but  few  and  meanspirited  that  live  in 
peace  with  all  men. 

Tale  of  a  Tub. 


140 


JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


i. 

"  /^"^\F    writing    books    about    Dean 

1  I  Swift  there  is  no  end,"  quoth 
Mr.  Birrell.  The  reason  is 
plain  :  of  no  other  prominent  writer  who 
has  lived  during  the  past  two  hundred 
years  do  we  know  so  much.  His  life 
lies  open  to  us  in  many  books.  Boswell 
did  not  write  his  biography,  but  Johnson 
did.  Then  followed  whole  schools  of  lit- 
tle fishes,  some  of  whom  wrote  like 
whales.  But  among  the  works  of  genu- 
ine worth  and  merit  with  Swift  for  a  sub- 
ject, we  have  Sir  Walter  Scott's  nineteen 
volumes,  and  lives  by  Craik,  Mitford, 
Forster,  Collins,  and  Leslie  Stephen. 

The  positive  elements  in  Swift's  char- 
acter make  him  a  most  interesting  subject 
141 


XLbc  "fcaunte  of 


to  men  and  women  who  are  yet  on  earth, 
for  he  was  essentially  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
And  until  we  are  shown  that  the  earth  is 
wholly  bad,  we  shall  find  much  to  amuse, 
much  to  instruct,  much  to  admire,  aye, 
much  to  pity  in  the  life  of  Jonathan 
Swift. 

His  father  married  when  twenty.  His 
income  matched  his  years — it  was  just 
twenty  pounds  per  annum.  His  wife  was  a 
young  girl,  bright,  animated,  intelligent. 

In  a  few  short  months  this  girl  carried 
in  her  arms  a  baby.  This  baby  was 
wrapped  in  a  tattered  shawl  and  cried 
piteously  from  hunger,  for  the  mother 
had  not  enough  to  eat.  She  was  cold, 
and  sick,  and  in  disgrace.  Her  husband, 
too,  was  ill  and  sorely  in  debt.  It  was 
midwinter. 

When  spring  came,  and  the  flowers 
blossomed,  and  the  birds  mated,  and 
warm  breezes  came  whispering  softly 
from  the  south  and  all  the  earth  was 
glad,  the  husband  of  this  child-wife  was 
in  his  grave,  and  she  was  alone.  Alone  ? 
142 


Sonatban  Swift 


No;  she  carried  in  her  tired  arms  the 
hungry  babe  and  beneath  her  heart  she 
felt  the  faint  flutter  of  another  life. 

But  to  be  in  trouble  and  in  Ireland  is 
not  so  bad  after  all,  for  the  Irish  people 
have  great  and  tender  hearts  and  even  if 
they  have  not  much  to  bestow  in  a  ma- 
terial way  they  can  give  sympathy,  and 
they  do. 

So  the  girl  was  cared  for  by  kind  kin- 
dred and  on  Nov.  30th,  1667,  at  No.  7, 
Hoey's  Court,  Dublin,  the  second  baby 
was  born. 

Only  a  little  way  from  Hoey's  Court 
is  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral.  On  that  No- 
vember day,  as  the  tones  from  the  clang- 
ing chimes  fell  on  the  weary  senses  of 
the  young  mother  there  in  her  darkened 
room,  little  did  she  think  that  the  puny 
bantling  which  she  held  to  her  breast 
would  yet  be  the  Dean  of  the  great  church 
whose  bells  she  heard ;  and  how  could 
she  anticipate  a  whisper  coming  to  her 
from  the  far  off  future :  "Of  writing 
books  about  your  babe  there  is  no  end  "  ! 
143 


II. 


THE  man-child  was  given  to  an  old 
woman  to  care  for,  and  he  had  the 
ability,  even  then,  it  seems,  to  win 
affection.  The  foster  mother  loved  him 
and  she  stole  him  away,  carrying  him  off 
to  England. 

Charity  ministered  to  his  needs  ;  charity 
gave  him  his  education. 

When  Swift  was  twenty-one  years  old 
he  went  to  see  his  mother.  Her  means 
were  scanty  to  the  point  of  hardship,  but 
so  buoyant  was  her  mind  that  she  used  to 
declare  that  she  was  both  rich  and  happy 
— and  being  happy  she  was  certainly  rich. 
She  was  a  rare  woman.  Her  spirit  was 
independent,  her  mind  cultivated,  her 
manner  gentle  and  refined,  and  she  was 
endowed  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 

From  her  the  son  derived  those  quali- 
144 


3onatban  Switt 


ties  that  have  made  him  famous.  No 
man  is  greater  than  his  mother  :  but  the 
sons  of  brave  women  do  not  always  make 
brave  men.  In  one  quality  Swift  was 
lamentably  inferior  to  his  mother — he  did 
not  have  her  capacity  for  happiness.  He 
had  wit ;  she  had  humor. 

We  have  seen  how  Swift's  father  sick- 
ened and  died.  The  world  was  too  severe 
for  him,  its  buffets  too  abrupt,  its  burden 
too  heavy,  and  he  gave  up  the  fight  be- 
fore the  battle  had  really  begun.  This 
lack  of  courage  and  extreme  sensitiveness 
are  seen  in  the  son.  But  so  peculiar, 
complex,  and  wonderful  is  this  web  of 
life,  that  our  very  blunders,  weaknesses, 
and  mistakes  are  woven  in  and  make  the 
fabric  stronger.  If  Swift  had  possessed 
only  his  mother's  merits  without  his 
father's  faults,  he  would  never  have 
shaken  the  world  with  laughter,  and  we 
should  never  have  heard  of  him. 

In  her  lowliness  and  simplicity  the 
mother  of  Swift  was  content.  She  did 
her  work  in  her  own  little  way.  She 
145 


Zbc  f>aunts  of 


smiled  at  folly,  and  each  day  she  thanked 
Heaven  that  her  lot  was  no  worse :  not 
so  her  son.  He  brooded  in  sullen  silence  ; 
he  cursed  fate  for  making  him  a  depend- 
ent, and  even  in  his  youth  he  scorned 
those  who  benefited  him.  This  was  a 
very  human  proceeding. 

Many  hate,  but  few  have  a  fine  capacity 
for  scorn.  Their  hate  is  so  vehement 
that  when  hurled  it  falls  short.  Swift's 
scorn  was  a  beautifully  winged  arrow, 
with  a  poisoned  tip.  Some  who  were 
struck  did  not  at  the  time  know  it. 

His  misanthropy  defeated  his  purpose, 
thwarted  his  ambition,  ruined  his  aims, 
and — made  his  name  illustrious. 

Swift  wished  for  churchly  preferment, 
but  he  had  not  the  patience  to  wait.  He 
imagined  that  others  were  standing  in 
his  way  and  of  course  they  were  ;  for  un- 
der the  calm  exterior  of  things  ecclesiastic 
there  is  often  a  strife,  a  jealousy,  and  a 
competition  more  rabid  than  in  com- 
merce. To  succeed  in  winning  a  bishop- 
ric requires  a  sagacity  as  keen  as  that 
146 


Sonatban  Swift 


required  to  become  a  Senator  of  Massa- 
chusetts or  Governor  of  New  York.  The 
man  bides  his  time,  makes  himself  popu- 
lar, secures  advocates,  lubricates  the  way, 
pulls  the  wires,  and  slides  noiselessly  into 
place. 

Swift  lacked  diplomacy.  When  mat- 
ters did  not  seem  to  progress  he  grew 
wrathful,  seized  his  pen  and  stabbed  with 
it.  But  as  he  wrote,  the  ludicrousness  of 
the  whole  situation  came  over  him  and 
instead  of  cursing  plain  curses,  he  held 
his  adversary  up  to  ridicule  !  And  this 
ridicule  is  so  active,  the  scorn  so  mixed 
with  wit,  the  shafts  so  finely  feathered 
with  truth,  that  it  is  the  admiration  of 
mankind.  Vitriol  mixed  with  ink  is  vol- 
atile. Then  what  ?  We  just  run  Swift 
through  a  coarse  sieve  to  take  out  the 
lumps  of  seventeenth  century  refuse  and 
then  we  give  him  to  children  to  make 
them  laugh.  Surely  no  better  use  can 
be  made  of  pessimists. 

Verily,  the  author  of  Gulliver  wrote  for 
one  purpose,  we  use  his  work  for  another. 
147 


Gbe  flaunts  of 


He  wished  for  office,  he  got  contempt ;  he 
tried  to  subdue  his  enemies,  they  sub- 
dued him  ;  he  worked  for  the  present,  and 
he  won  immortality. 

Said  Heinrich  Heine,  prone  on  his  bed 
in  Paris  :  "The  wittiest  sarcasms  of  mor- 
tals are  only  an  attempt  at  jesting  when 
compared  with  those  of  the  great  Author 
of  the  Universe — the  Aristophanes  of 
Heaven  !  " 

Wise  men  over  and  over  have  wasted 
good  ink  and  paper  in  bewailing  Swift's 
malice  and  coarseness.  But  without  these 
very  elements  which  the  wise  men  be- 
moan, Swift  would  be  for  us  a  cipher. 
Yet  love  is  life  and  hate  is  death,  so  how 
can  spite  benefit  ?  The  answer  is  that  in 
certain  forms  of  germination,  frost  is  as 
necessary  as  sunshine  :  so  some  men  have 
qualities  that  lie  dormant  until  the  cold- 
ness of  hate  bursts  the  coarse  husk  of  in- 
difference. 

But  while  hate  may  animate,  only  love 
inspires.  Swift  might  have  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  Church  of  England,  but  even 
148 


Jonatban  Swift 


if  so  he  would  be  only  a  unit  in  a  long 
list  of  names,  and  as  it  is,  there  is  only  one 
Swift.  Mr.  Talmage  has  recently  told 
us  that  not  ten  men  in  America  knew 
the  name  of  the  present  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  until  his  son  wrote  a  certain 
book  entitled  Dodo.  In  putting  out  this 
volume,  young  Mr.  Benson  has  not  only 
given  us  the  strongest  possible  argument 
favoring  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  but 
at  the  same  time,  if  Brooklyn's  noted 
preacher  is  right,  he  has  made  known  his 
father's  name. 

In  all  of  Swift's  work  save  The  Journal 
to  Stella  the  animating  motive  seems  to 
have  been  to  confound  his  enemies  ;  and 
according  to  the  well  known  line  in  that 
hymn  sung  wherever  the  Union  Jack 
flies,  we  must  believe  this  to  be  a  per- 
fectly justifiable  ambition.  But  occasion- 
ally on  his  pages  we  find  gentle  words  of 
wisdom  that  were  meant  evidently  for 
love's  eyes  alone.  There  is  much  that  is 
pure  boyish  frolic,  and  again  and  again 
there  are  clever  strokes  directed  at  folly. 
149 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


He  has  shot  certain  superstitions  through 
with  doubt,  and  in  his  manner  of  dealing 
with  error  he  has  proved  to  us  a  thing 
which  it  were  well  not  to  forget :  that 
pleasantry  is  more  efficacious  than  vehe- 
mence. 

Let  me  name  one  incident  by  way  of 
proof— the  well  known  one  of  Partridge, 
the  almanac  maker.  This  worthy  cobbler 
was  an  astrologer  of  no  mean  repute. 
He  foretold  events  with  much  discretion. 
The  ignorant  bought  his  almanacs  and 
many  believed  in  them  as  a  bible,— in 
fact  astrology  was  enjoying  a  "  boom." 

Swift  came  to  London  and  found  that 
the  predictions  of  Partridge  was  the 
theme  at  the  coffee-houses.  He  saw  men 
argue  and  wax  wroth,  grow  red  in  the 
face  as  they  talked  loud  and  long  about 
nothing— just  nothing.  The  whole  thing 
struck  Swift  as  being  very  funny  ;  and  he 
wrote  an  announcement  of  his  intention 
to  publish  a  rival  almanac.  He  explained 
that  he,  too,  was  an  astrologer,  but  an 
honest  one,  while  Partridge  was  an  im- 
150 


Sonatban  Swift 


postor  and  a  cheat ;  in  fact,  Partridge 
foretold  only  things  which  every  one 
knew  would  come  true.  As  for  himself, 
he  could  discern  the  future  with  absolute 
certainty,  and  to  prove  to  the  world  his 
power  he  would  now  make  a  prophecy. 
In  substance  it  was  as  follows  :  "  My  first 
prediction  is  but  a  trifle,  it  relates  to  Par- 
tridge, the  almanac  maker.  I  have  con- 
sulted the  star  of  his  nativity  and  find 
that  he  will  die  on  the  29th  day  of  March, 
next."  This  was  signed,  "  Isaac  Bicker- 
staff  "  and  duly  issued  in  pamphlet  form. 
It  had  such  an  air  of  sincerity  that  both 
the  believers  and  the  scoffers  read  it  with 
interest. 

The  30th  of  March  came  and  another 
pamphlet  from  "  Isaac  Bickerstaff"  ap- 
peared announcing  the  fulfillment  of  the 
prophecy.  It  related  how  toward  the  end 
of  March  Partridge  began  to  languish  ; 
how  he  grew  ill  and  at  last  took  to  his  bed, 
and,  his  conscience  then  smiting  him,  he 
confessed  to  the  world  that  he  was  a 
fraud  and  a  rogue,  that  all  of  his  prophe- 
151 


Gbe  Ibaunts  ot 


cies  were  impositions  :  lie  then  passed 
away. 

Partridge  was  wild  with  rage  and  im- 
mediately replied  in  a  manifesto  declaring 
that  he  was  alive  and  well  and  moreover 
was  alive  on  March  29th. 

To  this  "  Bickerstaff  "  replied  in  a  pam- 
phlet more  seriously  humorous  than  ever, 
reaffirming  that  Partridge  was  dead,  and 
closing  with  the  statement  that,  "  if  an 
uninformed  carcass  still  walks  about 
calling  itself  Partridge,  I  do  not  in  any 
way  consider  myself  responsible  for 
that." 

The  joke  set  all  London  on  a  grin. 
Wherever  Partridge  went  he  was  met 
with  smiles  and  jeers,  and  astrology  be- 
came only  a  jest  to  a  vast  number  of 
people  who  had  formerly  believed  in  it 
seriously. 

When  Benjamin  Franklin  started  his 
Poor  Richard's  Almanac,  twenty-five 
years  later,  in  the  first  issue  he  prophe- 
sied the  death  of  one  Dart  who  set  the 
pace  at  that  time  as  almanac  maker  in 
152 


Sonatban  Swift 


America.    The  man  was  to  expire  Oct. 

17.  1733.  at  3-29  p.m. 

Dart,  being  somewhat  of  a  joker  himself 
came  out  with  an  announcement  that  he 
too  had  consulted  the  oracle  and  found 
he  would  live  until  Oct.  26th  and  possibly 
longer. 

On  Oct.  1 8th  Franklin  announced 
Dart's  death  and  explained  that  it  oc- 
curred promptly  on  time  all  as  prophe- 
sied. 

Yet  Dart  lived  to  publish  many  al- 
manacs, but  Poor  Richard  got  his  adver- 
tisement, and  many  staid  broad-brimmed 
Philadelphians  smiled  who  had  never 
smiled  before — not  only  smiled  but  sub- 
scribed. 

Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  great  and 
good  man,  as  any  man  must  be  who  fath- 
ers another's  jokes,  introducing  these  or- 
phaned children  to  the  world  as  his  own. 

Perhaps  no  one  who  has  written  of 
Swift  knew  him  so  well  as  Delany. 
And  this  writer,  who  seems  to  have  pos- 
sessed a  judicial  quality  far  beyond  most 
153 


Gbe  f>aunta  ot 


men,  has  told  us  that  Swift  was  moral  in 
conduct  to  the  point  of  asceticism.  His 
deportment  was  grave  and  dignified,  and 
his  duties  as  a  priest  were  always  per- 
formed with  exemplary  diligence.  He 
visited  the  sick,  regularly  administered 
the  sacraments,  and  was  never  known  to 
absent  himself  from  morning  prayers. 

When  Harley  was  I^ord  Treasurer,  Swift 
seems  to  have  been  on  the  topmost  crest 
of  the  wave  of  popularity.  Invitations 
from  nobility  flowed  in  upon  him,  beauti- 
ful women  deigned  to  go  in  search  of  his 
society,  royalty  recognized  him.  And 
yet  all  this  time  he  was  only  a  country 
priest  with  a  liking  for  literature. 

Collins  tells  us  that  the  reason  of  his 
popularity  is  plain  :  "  Swift  was  one  of 
the  kings  of  the  earth.  Like  Pope  In- 
nocent III.,  like  Chatham,  he  was  one  to 
whom  the  world  involuntarily  pays  trib- 
ute." 

His  will  was  a  will  of  adamant ;  his  in- 
tellect so  keen  that  it  impressed  every  one 
who  approached  him ;  his  temper  singu- 
154 


Jonatban  Swift 


larly  stern,  dauntless,  and  haughty.  But 
his  wit  -was  never  filled  with  gayety  :  he 
was  never  known  to  laugh.  Amid  the 
wildest  uproar  that  his  sallies  caused  he 
would  sit  with  face  austere — unmoved. 

Personally,  Swift  was  a  gentleman. 
When  he  was  scurrilous,  abusive,  ribald, 
malicious,  it  was  anonymously.  Is  this  to 
his  credit  ?  I  should  not  say  so,  but  if 
a  man  is  indecent  and  he  hides  behind  a 
nom  de  plume  it  is  at  least  presumptive 
proof  that  he  is  not  dead  to  shame. 

Leslie  Stephen  tells  us  that  Swift  was  a 
Churchman  to  the  backbone.  No  man 
who  is  a  "  Churchman  to  the  backbone  "  is 
ever  very  pious  :  the  spirit  maketh  alive 
but  the  letter  killeth.  One  looks  in  vain 
for  traces  of  spirituality  in  the  Dean. 
His  sermons  are  models  of  churchly  com- 
monplace and  full  of  the  stock  phrases 
of  a  formal  religion.  He  never  bursts 
into  flame.  Yet  he  most  thoroughly  and 
sincerely  believed  in  religion.  ■ '  I  believe 
in  religion — it  keeps  the  masses  in  check. 
And  then  I  uphold  Christianity  because 
155 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


if  it  is  abolished  the  stability  of  the 
Church  might  be  endangered,"  he  said. 

Philip  asked  the  eunuch  a  needless  ques- 
tion when  he  inquired:  " Understandest 
thou  what  thou  readest  ?  ' '  No  one  so 
poorly  sexed  as  Swift  can  comprehend 
spiritual  truth  :  spirituality  and  sexuality 
are  elements  that  are  never  separated. 
Swift  was  as  incapable  of  spirituality  as 
he  was  of  the  "  grand  passion." 

The  Dean  had  affection  ;  he  was  a  warm 
friend ;  he  was  capable  even  of  a  degree 
of  love,  but  his  sexual  and  spiritual  na- 
ture was  so  cold  and  calculating  that  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  love  to 
churchly  ambition. 

He  argued  that  the  celibacy  of  the 
Catholic  clergy  is  a  wise  expediency. 
The  bachelor  physician  and  the  unmar- 
ried priest  have  an  influence  among  gen- 
tle womankind,  young  or  old,  married 
or  single,  that  a  benedict  can  never  hope 
for.  Why  this  is  so  might  be  difficult  to 
explain,  but  discerning  men  know  the 
fact.  In  truth,  when  a  priest  marries  he 
156 


Sonatban  Swift 


should  at  once  take  a  new  charge,  for  if  he 
remains  with  his  old  flock  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  his  "lady  parishioners,"  in  ages 
varying  from  seventeen  to  seventy,  will 
with  fierce  indignation  rend  his  reputa- 
tion. 

Swift  was  as  wise  as  a  serpent,  but  not 
always  harmless  as  a  dove.  He  was  mak- 
ing every  effort  to  secure  his  mitre  and 
crosier :  he  had  many  women  friends  in 
London  and  elsewhere  who  had  influence. 
Rather  than  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  this 
influence  he  never  acknowledged  Stella 
as  his  wife.  Choosing  fame  rather  than 
love  he  withered  at  the  heart,  then  died 
at  the  top. 

The  life  of  every  man  is  a  seamless 
garment— its  woof  his  thoughts,  its  warp 
his  deeds.  When  for  him  the  roaring 
loom  of  time  stops  and  the  thread  is 
broken,  foolish  people  sometimes  point 
to  certain  spots  in  the  robe  and  say  :  "O 
why  did  he  not  leave  that  out!"  not 
knowing  that  every  action  of  man  is  a 
sequence  from  off  fate's  spindle. 
157 


Jonatban  Swift 


Let  us  accept  the  work  of  genius  as  we 
find  it :  not  bemoaning  because  it  is  not 
better,  but  giving  thanks  because  it  is  so 
good. 


158 


III. 


FATHER  O'Toole  of  Dublin  is  a  well- 
fed,  rollicking  priest  with  a  big 
round  face,  a  double  chin,  and  a 
brogue  that  you  can  cut  with  a  knife. 

My  letter  of  introduction  from  Mon- 
seigneur  Satolli  caused  him  at  once  to 
bring  in  a  large,  suspicious  black  bottle 
and  two  glasses.  Then  we  talked — talked 
of  Ireland's  wrongs  and  woman's  rights 
and  of  all  the  Irishmen  in  America,  whom 
I  was  supposed  to  know.  We  spoke  of 
the  illustrious  Irishmen  who  had  passed 
on,  and  I  mentioned  a  name  that  caused 
the  holy  father  to  spring  from  his  chair 
in  indignation. 

"Shwift  is  it!    Shwift ;    no,  me  lad, 

don't  go  near  him.     He  was  the  divil's 

own,  the  very  worsht  that  ever  followed 

the  swish  of  a  petticoat.     No,  no,  if  ye  go 

159 


Gbe  t)aunts  of 


to  his  grave  it  'ull  bring  ye  bad  luck  for  a 
year.  It 's  Tom  Moore  ye  want,  Tom  was 
the  bie.  Arrah !  now  and  it  's  meself 
phat  'u  '11  go  wid  ye." 

And  so  the  reverend  father  put  on  a 
long  black  coat  and  his  St.  Patrick's  Day 
hat,  and  we  started.  We  were  met  at  the 
gate  by  a  delegation  of  "shpalpeens " 
that  had  located  me  on  the  inside  of  the 
house  and  were  lying  in  wait. 

All  American  travellers  in  Ireland  are 
supposed  to  be  millionaires,  and  this  may 
possibly  explain  the  lavish  attention  that 
is  often  tendered  them.  At  any  rate,  vari- 
ous members  of  the  delegation  wished 
"long  life  to  the  iligant  'merican  gintle- 
man  "  and  hinted  in  unmistakable  terms 
that  pence  would  be  acceptable.  The  holy 
father  applied  his  cane  vigorously  to  the 
ragged  rears  of  the  more  presumptuous 
and  bade  them  begone,  but  still  they  fol- 
lowed and  pressed  close  about. 

"  Here,  I'll  show  you  how  to  get  rid  of 
the  dirty  gang, ' '  said  his  holiness.    ■  f  Have 
ye  a  penny,  I  don't  know?  " 
1 60 


Jonathan  Swift 


I  produced  a  handful  of  small  change, 
which  the  father  immediately  took  and 
tossed  into  the  street.  Instantly  there 
was  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  young  Hi- 
bernians piled  up  in  the  dirt  in  a  grand 
struggle  for  spoils.  It  reminded  me  of 
football  incidents  I  had  seen  at  fair  Har- 
vard. In  the  meantime  we  escaped  down 
a  convenient  alley  and  crossed  the  River 
Liffey  to  Old  Dublin  ;  inside  the  walls 
of  the  old  city,  through  crooked  lanes  and 
winding  streets  that  showed  here  and 
there  signs  of  departed  gentility  but  now 
told  only  of  squalor,  want,  and  vice,  until 
we  came  to  No.  12  Angier  Street,  a  quaint, 
three-story  brick  building  now  used  as  a 
"public."  In  the  wall  above  the  door 
is  a  marble  slab  with  this  inscription  : 
"Here  was  born  Thomas  Moore,  on  the 
28th  day  of  May,  1778."  Above  this  in 
a  niche  is  a  bust  of  the  poet. 

Tom's  father  was  a  worthy  greengrocer 

who,  according  to  the  author  of  Lalla 

Rookh,  always   gave  good  measure  and 

full  count.     It  was  ever  a  cause  of  regret 

161 


XZbe  Ibaunts  of 


to  the  elder  Moore  that  his  son  did  not 
show  sufficient  capacity  to  be  safely 
trusted  with  the  business. 

The  upper  rooms  of  the  house  were 
shown  to  us  by  an  obliging  landlady. 
Father  O'Toole  had  been  here  before  and 
led  the  way  to  a  snug  little  chamber  and 
explained  :  In  this  room  the  future  poet 
of  Ireland  was  found  under  one  of  his 
father's  cabbage  leaves. 

We  descended  to  the  neat  little  barroom 
with  its  sanded  floor  and  polished  glass- 
ware and  shining  brass.  The  holy  father 
ordered  'arf  and  'arf  at  my  expense  and 
recited  one  of  Moore's  ballads.  The 
landlady  then  gave  us  Byron's  "  Here 's 
a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore."  A 
neighbor  came  in.  Then  we  had  more 
ballads,  more  'arf  and  'arf,  a  selection 
from  Lalla  Rookh  and  various  tales  of 
the  poet's  early  life,  which  possibly  would 
be  hard  to  verify. 

And  as  the  tumult  raged  the  smoke 
of  battle  gave  me  opportunity  to  slip 
away.  I  crossed  the  street,  turned  down 
162 


Jonathan  Swttt 


one    block,    and    entered    St.    Patrick's 
Cathedral. 

Great,  roomy,  gloomy,  solemn  temple, 
where  the  rumble  of  city  traffic  is  dead- 
ened to  a  faint  hum  : 
"  Without,  the  world's  unceasing  noises  rise, 
Turmoil,  disquietude,  and  busy  fears  ; 
Within,  there  are  the  sounds  of  other  years, 
Thoughts  full  of  prayer  and  solemn  harmonies 
Which  imitate  oh  earth  the  peaceful  skies." 

Other  worshippers  were  there.     Stand- 
ing beside  a  great  stone  pillar  I  could 
make  them  out  kneeling  on  the  tiled 
floor.     Gradually  my  eyes  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  subdued  light,  and  right  at 
my  feet  I  saw  a  large  brass  plate  set  in 
the  floor  and  on  it  only  this : 
Swift 
Died  Oct.  19,  1745 
Aged  78 
On  the  wall  near  is  a  bronze  tablet,  the 
inscription  of  which,  in  Latin,  was  dic- 
tated by  Swift  himself : 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Jonathan  Swift^ 
Dean  of  this  Cathedral,  where  fierce  in- 
163 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


dignation  can  no  longer  rend  his  heart. 
Go  !  wayfarer,  and  imitate,  if  thou  canst, 
one  who,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  was  an 
earnest  champion  of  liberty " 

Above  this  is  a  fine  bust  of  the  Dean 
and  to  the  right  is  another  tablet : 

"  Underneath  lie  interred  the  mortal 
remains  of  Mrs.  Hester  Johnson,  better 
known  to  the  world  as  'Stella,'  under 
which  she  is  celebrated  in  the  writings 
of  Dr.  Jonathan  Swift,  Dean  of  this  Ca- 
thedral. She  was  a  person  of  extraor- 
dinary endowments  and  accomplishments, 
in  body,  mind,  and  behavior  ;  justly  ad- 
mired and  respected  by  all  who  knew  her 
on  account  of  her  eminent  virtues  as  well 
as  for  her  great  natural  and  acquired  per- 
fections." 

These  were  suffering  souls  and  great. 
Would  they  have  been  so  great  had  they 
not  suffered  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  Were  the 
waters  troubled  in  order  that  they  might 
heal  the  people  ? 

Did  Swift  misuse  this  excellent  woman, 
164 


5onatban  Swfft 


is  a  question   that  has  been  asked  and 
answered  again  and  again. 

A  great  author  has  written  : 

"A  woman,  a  tender,  noble,  excellent 
woman,  has  a  dog's  heart.  She  licks  the 
hand  that  strikes  her.  And  wrong  nor 
cruelty  nor  injustice  nor  disloyalty  can 
cause  her  to  turn." 

Death  in  pity  took  Stella  first ;  took 
her  in  the  loyalty  of  love  and  the  fulness 
of  faith  from  a  world  which  for  love  has 
little  recompense,  and  for  faith  small  ful- 
fillment. 

Stella  was  buried  by  torchlight,  at  mid- 
night, on  the  30th  day  of  January,  1728. 
Swift  was  sick  at  the  time,  and  wrote  in 
his  journal:  "This  is  the  night  of  her 
funeral  and  I  am  removed  to  another 
apartment  that  I  may  not  see  the  light  in 
the  church  which  is  just  over  against  my 
window."  But  in  his  imagination  he  saw 
the  gleaming  torches  as  their  dull  light 
shone  through  the  colored  windows  and 
he  said:  "They  will  soon  do  as  much 
for  me." 

165 


Sonatban  Swift 


But  seventeen  years  came  crawling  by 
before  the  torches  flared,  smoked,  and 
gleamed  as  the  mourners  chanted  a  re- 
quiem, and  the  clods  fell  on  the  coffin, 
and  their  echoes  intermingled  with  the 
solemn  voice  of  the  priest  as  he  said, 
11  Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes." 

In  1835  the  graves  were  opened  and 
casts  taken  of  the  skulls.  The  top  of 
Swift's  skull  had  been  sawed  off  at  the 
autopsy,  and  a  bottle  in  which  was  a 
parchment  setting  forth  the  facts  was  in- 
serted in  the  head  that  had  conceived 
Gulliver's  Travels. 

I  examined  the  casts.  The  woman's 
head  is  square  and  shapely.  Swift's  head 
is  a  refutation  of  phrenology,  being  small, 
sloping,  and  ordinary. 

The  bones  of  Swift  and  Stella  were 
placed  in  one  coffin  and  now  rest  under 
three  feet  of  concrete,  beneath  the  floor 
of  St.  Patrick's. 

So  sleep  the  lovers  joined  in  death. 


166 


try, 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


167 


Man  is  neither  master  of  his  life  nor  of  his  fate. 
He  can  but  offer  to  his  fellow-men  his  efforts  to 
diminish  human  suffering ;  he  can  but  offer  to 
God  his  indomitable  faith  in  the  growth  of 
liberty. 

Victor  Hugo. 


168 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


VICTOR  HUGO  was  the  third  of 
three  sons.  His  father  was  a 
general  in  the  army  of  Napoleon, 
his  mother  a  woman  of  rare  grace  and 
brave  good  sense.  Six  weeks  before  the 
birth  of  her  youngest  son  she  wrote  to 
a  very  dear  friend  of  her  husband,  this 
letter : 

11  To  General  Victor  I^ahorie, 

"  Citizen-General  : 

11  Soon  to  become  the  mother  of  a  third 
child,  it  would  be  very  agreeable  to  me 
if  you  would  act  as  its  godfather.  Its 
name  shall  be  yours — one  which  you  have 
not  belied  and  one  which  you  have  so  well 
169 


Cbe  "fcaunts  of 


honored  :  Victor  or  Victorine.  Your  con- 
sent will  be  a  testimonial  of  your  friend- 
ship for  us. 

"  Please  accept,  Citizen-General,  the  as- 
surance of  our  sincere  attachment. 

"FemmbHugo." 

Victorine  was  expected,  Victor  came. 
General  Lahorie  acted  as  sponsor  to  the 
infant. 

A  soldier's  family  lives  here  or  there, 
everywhere  or  anywhere.  In  1808  Gen- 
eral Hugo  was  with  Joseph  Bonaparte  in 
Spain.  Victor  was  then  six  years  old. 
His  mother  had  taken  as  a  residence  a 
quaint  house  in  the  Impasse  of  the  Feul- 
lan tines,  Paris.  It  was  one  of  those  pecu- 
liar old  places  occasionally  seen  in 
France.  The  environs  of  London  have  a 
few ;  America  none  of  which  I  know. 
This  house,  roomy,  comfortable  and  anti- 
quated, was  surrounded  with  trees  and  a 
tangle  of  shrubbery,  vines,  and  flowers  ; 
about  it  all  was  a  high  stone  wall  and  in 
front  a  picketed  iron  gate.  It  was  a  mo- 
170 


IDictor  1bugo 


saic — a  sample  of  the  sixteenth  century 
inlaid  in  this  ;  solitary  as  the  woods  ;  quiet 
as  a  convent ;  sacred  as  a  forest ;  a  place 
for  dreams,  and  reverie,  and  rest.  At  the 
back  of  the  house  was  a  dilapidated  little 
chapel.  Here  an  aged  priest  counted  his 
beads,  said  daily  mass,  and  endeavored  to 
keep  moth,  rust,  and  ruin  from  the  house 
of  prayer.  This  priest  was  a  scholar,  a 
man  of  learning :  he  taught  the  children 
of  Madame  Hugo. 

Another  man  lived  in  this  chapel.  He 
never  went  outside  the  gate  and  used  to 
take  exercise  at  night.  He  had  a  cot  bed 
in  the  shelter  of  the  altar  ;  beneath  his 
pillow  were  a  pair  of  pistols  and  a  copy 
of  Tacitus.  This  man  lived  there  sum- 
mer and  winter,  although  there  was  no 
warmth  save  the  scanty  sunshine  that 
stole  in  through  the  shattered  windows. 
He  too  taught  the  children  and  gave  them 
little  lectures  on  history.  He  loved  the 
youngest  boy  and  would  carry  him  on  his 
shoulder  and  tell  him  stories  of  deeds  of 
valor. 

171 


XLbc  f>aunts  ot 


One  day  a  file  of  soldiers  came.  They 
took  this  man  and  manacled  him.  The 
mother  sought  to  keep  her  children  inside 
the  house  so  that  they  should  not  witness 
the  scene,  but  she  did  not  succeed.  The 
boys  fought  their  mother  and  the  servants 
in  a  mad  frenzy  trying  to  rescue  the 
old  man.  The  soldiers  formed  in  col- 
umns of  four  and  marched  their  prisoner 
away. 

Not  long  after,  Madame  Hugo  was  pass- 
ing the  church  of  St.  Jacques  du  Haut 
Pas — her  youngest  boy's  hand  was  in 
hers.  She  saw  a  large  placard  posted  in 
front  of  the  church.  She  paused  and 
pointing  to  it  said,  "Victor,  read  that !  " 
The  boy  read.  It  was  a  notice  that  Gen- 
eral Lahorie  had  been  shot  that  day  on 
the  plains  of  Grenville  by  order  of  a  court 
marshal. 

General  I^ahorie  was  a  gentleman  of 
Brittany.  He  was  a  Republican,  and  five 
years  before  had  grievously  offended  the 
Bmperor.  A  charge  of  conspiracy  being 
proved  against  him,  a  price  was  placed 
172 


IDtctor  fjugo 


upon  his  head,  and  he  found  a  temporary 
refuge  with  the  mother  of  his  godson. 

That  tragic  incident  of  the  arrest,  and 
the  placard  announcing  General  Iyahorie's 
death,  burned  deep  into  the  soul  of  the 
manling,  and  who  shall  say  to  what  ex- 
tent it  colored  his  future  life  ! 

When  Napoleon  met  his  downfall,  it 
was  also  a  Waterloo  for  General  Hugo. 
His  property  was  confiscated,  and  penury 
took  the  place  of  plenty. 

When  Victor  was  nineteen,  his  mother 
having  died,  the  family  life  was  broken 
up.  In  Les  Miserables  the  early  strug- 
gles of  Marius  are  described ;  and  this, 
the  author  has  told  us,  may  be  considered 
autobiography.  He  has  related  how  the 
young  man  lived  in  a  garret ;  how  he 
would  sweep  this  barren  room  ;  how  he 
would  buy  a  pennyworth  of  cheese,  wait- 
ing until  dusk  to  get  a  loaf  of  bread  and 
slink  home  as  furtively  as  if  he  had  stolen 
it ;  how  carrying  his  book  under  his  arm 
he  would  enter  the  butcher's  shop  and 
after  being  elbowed  by  jeering  servants 
173 


XTbe  founts  of 


till  he  felt  the  cold  sweat  standing  out  on 
his  forehead,  he  would  take  off  his  hat  to 
the  astonished  butcher  and  ask  for  a  sin- 
gle mutton  chop.  This  he  would  carry 
to  his  garret  and  cooking  it  himself,  it 
would  be  made  to  last  for  three  days. 

In  this  way  he  managed  to  live  on  less 
than  two  hundred  dollars  a  year,  derived 
from  the  proceeds  of  poems,  pamphlets, 
and  essays.  At  this  time  he  was  already 
an  "  Academy  Laureate,"  having  received 
an  honorable  mention  for  a  poem  sub- 
mitted in  a  competition. 

In  his  twentieth  year  fortune  came  to 
him  in  triple  form  :  he  brought  out  a 
book  of  poems  that  netted  him  seven 
hundred  francs ;  soon  after  the  publica- 
tion of  this  book,  Louis  XVIII.,  who  knew 
the  value  of  having  friends  who  were 
ready  writers,  bestowed  on  him  a  pension 
of  one  thousand  francs  a  year  ;  then  these 
two  pieces  of  good  fortune  made  possible 
a  third — his  marriage. 

Early  marriages  are  like  late  ones,  they 
may  be  wise  and  they  may  not.  Victor 
174 


IDfctor  f)U0O 


Hugo's  marriage  with  Adele  Foucher  was 
a  most  happy  event. 

A  man  with  a  mind  as  independent  as 
Victor  Hugo's  is  sure  to  make  enemies. 
The  "  Classics "  were  positive  that  he 
was  defiling  the  well  of  classic  French, 
and  they  sought  to  write  him  down. 
But  by  writing  a  man  up  you  cannot 
write  him  down  ;  the  only  thing  that  can 
smother  a  literary  aspirant  is  silence. 

Victor  Hugo  coined  the  word  when  he 
could  not  find  it,  transposed  phrases,  in- 
verted sentences,  and  never  called  a  spade 
an  agricultural  implement.  Not  con- 
tent with  this,  he  put  the  spade  on  exhi- 
bition and  this  often  at  unnecessary  times, 
and  occasionally  prefaced  the  word  with 
an  adjective.  Had  he  been  let  alone  he 
would  not  have  done  this. 

The  censors  told  him  he  must  not  use 
the  name  of  Deity,  nor  should  he  refer  so 
often  to  kings.  At  once  he  doubled  his 
Topseys  and  put  on  his  stage  three  Uncle 
Toms  when  one  might  have  answered. 
Like  Shakespeare,  he  used  idioms  and 
175 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


slang  with  profusion — anything  to  ex- 
press the  idea.  Will  this  convey  the 
thought  ?  If  so,  it  was  written  down  and 
once  written,  Beelzebub  and  all  his  hosts 
could  not  make  him  change  it.  But  in 
the  interest  of  truth  let  me  note  one  ex- 
ception : 

"I  do  not  like  that  word,"  said  Mad- 
emoiselle Mars  to  M.  Victor  Hugo  at  a 
rehearsal  of  Hernani  ;  '*  can  I  not  change 
it?" 

"I  wrote  it  so  and  it  must  stand,"  was 
the  answer. 

Mile.  Mars  used  another  expression 
instead  of  the  author's,  and  he  promptly 
asked  her  to  resign  her  part.  She  wept, 
and  upon  agreeing  to  adhere  to  the  text 
was  reinstated  in  favor. 

Rehearsal  after  rehearsal  occurred  and 
the  words  were  repeated  as  written.  The 
night  of  the  performance  came.  Superb 
was  the  stage  setting,  splendid  the  audi- 
ence. The  play  went  forward  amid  loud 
applause.  The  scene  was  reached  where 
came  the  objectionable  word.  Did  Mile. 
176 


Wctor  1b\XQO 


Mars  use  it  ?  Of  course  not ;  she  used 
the  word  she  chose — (she  was  a  woman). 
Fifty-three  times  she  played  the  part  and 
she  did  not  once  use  the  author's  pet 
phrase  :  and  he  was  wise  enough  not  to 
note  the  fact.  The  moral  of  this  is  that 
even  a  strong  man  cannot  cope  with  a 
small  woman  who  weeps  at  the  right 
time. 

The  censorship  forbade  the  placing  of 
Marion  Delorme  on  the  stage  until  a  cer- 
tain historical  episode  in  it  had  been 
changed.  Would  the  author  be  so  kind 
as  to  change  it  ?    Not  he. 

"  Then  it  shall  not  be  played,"  said  M. 
de  Martignac.  The  author  hastened  to 
interview  the  minister  in  person.  He  got 
a  north  pole  reception.  In  fact,  M.  de 
Martignac  said  that  it  was  his  busy  day, 
and  that  play-writing  was  foolish  business 
anyway,  but  if  a  man  were  bound  to  write, 
he  should  write  to  amuse,  not  to  instruct. 
And  young  Hugo  was  bowed  out. 

When  he  found  himself  well  outside 
the  door  he  was  furious.  He  would  see 
177 


XLbe  f)aunt0  of 


the  King  himself.  And  he  did  see  the 
King.  His  Majesty  was  gracious  and 
very  patient.  He  listened  to  the  young 
author's  plea,  talked  book  lore,  recited 
poetry,  showed  that  he  knew  Hugo's 
verses,  asked  after  the  author's  wife,  then 
the  baby,  and — said  that  the  play  could 
not  go  on.  Hugo  turned  to  go.  Charles 
X.  called  him  back,  and  said  that  he  was 
glad  the  author  had  called,  in  fact,  he 
was  about  to  send  for  him.  His  pension 
thereafter  should  be  six  thousand  francs 
a  year. 

Victor  Hugo  declined  to  receive  it.  Of 
course  the  papers  were  full  of  the  subject. 
All  caf£dom  took  sides :  Paris  had  a 
topic  for  gesticulation  and  Paris  improved 
the  opportunity. 

Conservatism  having  stopped  this  play, 
there  was  only  one  thing  to  do — write 
another;  for  a  play  of  Victor  Hugo's 
must  be  put  upon  the  stage.  All  his 
friends  said  so  ;  his  honor  was  at  stake. 

In  three  weeks  another  play  was  ready. 
The  censors  read  it  and  gave  their  report. 
178 


Victor  1>U0O 


They  said  that  Hernani  was  whimsical 
in  conception,  defective  in  execution ;  a 
tissue  of  extravagancies,  generally  trivial 
and  often  coarse.  But  they  advised  that 
it  be  put  upon  the  stage  just  to  show  the 
public  to  what  extent  of  folly  an  au- 
thor could  go.  In  order  to  preserve  the 
dignity  of  their  office  they  drew  up  a  list 
of  six  places  where  the  text  should  be 
changed. 

Both  sides  were  afraid,  so  each  was 
willing  to  give  in  a  point.  The  text  was 
changed,  and  the  important  day  for  the 
presentation  was  drawing  nigh.  The 
Romanticists  of  course  were  anxious  that 
the  play  should  be  a  great  success ;  the 
Classics  were  quite  willing  that  it  should 
be  otherwise,  in  fact  they  had  bought 
up  the  claque  and  were  making  arrange- 
ments to  hiss  it  down.  But  the  author's 
friends  were  numerous  ;  they  were  young 
and  lusty;  they  held  meetings  behind 
locked  doors  and  swore  terrible  oaths 
that  the  play  should  go. 

On  the  day  of  the  initial  performance, 
179 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


five  hours  before  the  curtain  rose,  they 
were  on  hand,  having  taken  the  best  seats 
in  the  house.  They  also  took  the  worst, 
wherever  a  hisser  might  hide.  These 
advocates  of  liberal  art  wore  coats  of 
green  or  red  or  blue,  costumes  like  bull 
fighters,  trousers  and  hats  to  match  or 
not  to  match — anything  to  defy  tradition. 
All  during  the  performance  there  was  an 
uproar.  Theophile  Gautier  has  described 
the  event  in  most  entertaining  style,  and 
in  VHistorie  de  Romanticisme  the  re- 
cord of  it  is  found  in  detail. 

Several  American  writers  have  touched 
on  this  particular  theme,  and  all  who 
have  seen  fit  to  write  of  it  seem  to  have 
stood  under  umbrellas  when  God  rained 
humor.  One  writer  calls  it  "  the  out- 
burst of  a  tremendous  revolution  in  lit- 
erature." He  speaks  of  "  smouldering 
flames,"  "the  hordes  that  furiously 
fought  entrenched  behind  prestige, 
age,  caste,  wealth,  and  tradition,"  "sup- 
pression and  extermination  of  heresy," 
"those  who  sought  to  stop  the  onward 
1 80 


Dfctor  fmgo 


march  of  civilization,"  etc.,  etc.  Let  us 
be  sensible.  A  "cane  rush"  is  not  a 
revolution,  and  "  Bloody  Monday "  at 
Harvard  is  not  "  a  decisive  battle  in  the 
onward  and  upward  march." 

If  Hernani  had  been  hissed  down,  Vic- 
tor Hugo  would  have  lived  just  as  long 
and  might  have  written  better.  Civiliza- 
tion is  not  held  in  place  by  noisy  youths 
in  flaming  waistcoats  ;  and  even  if  every 
cabbage  had  hit  its  mark,  and  every  egg 
bespattered  its  target,  the  morning  stars 
would  still  sing  together. 

The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame  was 
next  turned  out — written  in  five  months — 
and  was  a  great  success.  Publishers  be- 
sieged the  author  for  another  story,  but 
he  preferred  poetry.  It  was  thirty  years 
before  his  next  novel,  Les  Miserables, 
appeared.  But  all  the  time  he  wrote — 
plays,  verses,  essays,  pamphlets.  Every- 
thing that  he  penned  was  widely  read. 
Amid  storms  of  opposition  and  cries  of 
bravo,  continually  making  friends,  he 
moved  steadily  forward. 
181 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


Men  like  Victor  Hugo  can  be  killed  or 
they  may  be  banished,  but  they  cannot 
be  bought ;  neither  can  they  be  intimi- 
dated into  silence.  He  resigned  his  pen- 
sion and  boldly  expressed  himself  in  his 
own  way. 

He  knew  history  by  heart  and  toyed 
with  it ;  politics  was  his  delight.  But  it 
is  a  mistake  to  call  him  a  statesman.  He 
was  bold  to  rashness,  impulsive,  impa- 
tient, and  vehement.  Because  a  man  is 
great  is  no  reason  why  he  should  be  pro- 
claimed perfect.  Such  men  as  Victor 
Hugo  need  no  veneer — the  truth  will  an- 
swer :  he  would  explode  a  keg  of  pow- 
der to  kill  a  fly.  He  was  an  agitator. 
But  these  zealous  souls  are  needed  ;  not 
to  govern  nor  to  be  blindly  followed,  but 
to  make  other  men  think  for  themselves. 
Yet  to  do  this  in  a  monarchy  is  not  safe. 

The  years  passed  and  the  time  came 
for  either  Hugo  or  Royalty  to  go  ;  France 
was  not  large  enough  for  both.  It  proved 
to  be  Hugo ;  a  bounty  of  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  was  offered  for  his  body, 
182 


Victor  fmgo 


dead  or  alive.  Through  a  woman's  devo- 
tion he  escaped  to  Brussels.  He  was 
driven  from  there  to  Jersey,  then  to 
Guernsey. 

It  was  nineteen  years  before  he  returned 
to  Paris — years  of  banishment,  but  years 
of  glory.  Exiled  by  fate  that  he  might 
do  his  work  ! 


183 


II. 


EACH  day  a  steamer  starts  from 
Southampton  for  Guernsey,  Al- 
derney,  and  Jersey.  These  are 
names  known  to  countless  farmers'  boys 
the  wide  world  over. 

You  cannot  mistake  the  Channel  Island 
boats — they  smell  like  a  county  fair,  and 
though  you  be  blind  and  deaf  it  is  impos- 
sible to  board  the  wrong  craft.  Every 
time  one  of  these  staunch  little  steamers 
lands  in  England,  crates  containing  mild- 
eyed,  lusty  calves  are  slid  down  the  gang- 
plank, marked  for  Maine,  Iowa,  California, 
or  some  uttermost  part  of  the  earth.  There 
his  vealship  (worth  his  weight  in  gold)  is 
going  to  found  a  kingdom. 

I  stood  on  the  dock  watching  the  bo- 
vine passengers  disembark  ;  and  furtively 
listened  the  while  to  an  animated  argu- 
184 


IDictor  f>ugo 


ment  between  two  rather  rough  looking, 
red  faced  men,  clothed  in  corduroys  and 
carrying  long,  stout  staffs.  Mixed  up  in 
their  conversation  I  caught  the  names  of 
royalty;  then  of  celebrities  great,  and 
artists  famous — warriors,  orators,  philan- 
thropists, and  musicians.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  these  rustics  were  poets  ? 
It  must  be  so.  And  there  came  to  me 
thoughts  of  Thoreau,  Walt  Whitman, 
Joaquin  Miller,  and  all  that  sublime  com- 
pany of  singers  in  shirt-sleeves. 

Suddenly  the  wind  veered  and  the  veil 
fell :  all  of  the  sacred  names  so  freely 
bandied  about  were  those  of  "  families  " 
with  mighty  milk  records. 

When  we  went  on  board  and  the  good 
ship  was  slipping  down  The  Solent,  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  these  men  and 
was  regaled  with  more  cow  talk  than  I 
had  heard  since  I  left  Texas. 

We  saw  the  island  of  Portsea,  where 

Dickens  was  born,  and  got  a  glimpse  of 

the  spires  of  Portsmouth  as  we  passed  ; 

then  came  the  Isle  of  Wight  and  the  quaint 

185 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


town  of  Cowes.  I  made  a  bright  joke  on 
the  latter  place  as  it  was  pointed  out  to 
me  by  my  Jersey  friend,  but  it  went  for 
naught. 

A  pleasant  sail  of  eight  hours  and  the 
towering  cliffs  of  Guernsey  came  in  sight. 
Foam  dashed  and  spray  covered  they  rise 
right  out  of  the  sea  at  the  south,  to  the 
height  of  two  hundred  and  seventy  feet. 
About  them  great  flocks  of  sea-fowl  hover, 
swirl,  and  soar.  Wild,  rugged,  and  ro- 
mantic is  the  scene. 

The  Isle  of  Guernsey  is  nine  miles 
long  and  six  wide.  Its  principal  town 
is  St.  Peter  Port,  a  place  of  about  six- 
teen thousand  inhabitants,  where  a  full 
dozen  hotel  porters  meet  the  incoming 
steamer  and  struggle  for  your  baggage. 

Hotels  and  boarding  houses  here  are 
numerous  and  good.  Guernsey  is  a  fav- 
orite resort  for  invalids  and  those  who 
desire  to  flee  the  busy  world  for  a  space. 
In  fact,  the  author  of  Les  Miserables  has 
made  exile  popular. 

Emerging  from  my  hotel  at  St.  Peter 
1 86 


Wctor  f)U0O 


Port  I  was  accosted  by  a  small  edition  of 
Gavroche,  all  in  tatters,  who  proposed 
showing  me  the  way  to  Hauteville  House 
for  a  penny.  I  already  knew  the  route,  but 
accepted  the  offer  on  Gavroche 's  promise 
to  reveal  to  me  a  secret  about  the  place. 
The  secret  is  this  :  The  house  is  haunted 
and  when  the  wind  is  east,  and  the  setting 
moon  shows  only  a  narrow  rim  above  the 
rocks,  ghosts  come  and  dance  a  solemn 
minuet  on  the  glass  roof  above  the  study. 

Had  Gavroche  ever  seen  them?  No, 
but  he  knew  a  boy  who  had.  Years  and 
years — ever  so  many  years  ago — before 
there  were  any  steamboats,  and  when 
only  a  schooner  came  to  Guernsey  once 
a  week  a  woman  was  murdered  in  Haute- 
ville House.  Her  ghost  came  back  with 
other  ghosts  and  drove  the  folks  away. 
So  the  big  house  remained  vacant,  save 
for  the  spooks  who  paid  no  rent. 

Then  after  a  great  long  time  Victor 

Hugo  came  and  lived  in  the  house.     The 

ghosts  did  not  bother  him.     Faith  !  they 

had  been  keeping  the  place  just  a'  pur- 

187 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


pose  for  him.  He  rented  the  house  first 
and  liked  it  so  well  that  he  bought  it :  got 
it  at  half  price  on  account  of  the  ghosts. 
Here  every  Christmas  Victor  Hugo  gave 
a  big  dinner  in  the  great  oak  hall  to  all 
the  children  in  Guernsey :  hundreds  of 
them — all  the  way  from  babies  that  could 
barely  creep,  to  "  boys"  with  whiskers. 
They  were  all  fed  on  turkey,  tarts, 
apples,  oranges,  and  figs  ;  and  when  they 
went  away  each  was  given  a  bag  of  candy 
to  take  home. 

Climbing  a  narrow,  crooked  street  we 
came  to  the  great,  dark,  gloomy  edifice 
situated  at  the  top  of  a  cliff.  The  house 
was  painted  black  by  some  strange  whim 
of  a  former  occupant. 

"  We  will  leave  it  so,"  said  Victor  Hugo, 
"  Liberty  is  dead  and  we  are  in  mourning 
for  her." 

But  the  gloom  of  Hauteville  House  is 
only  on  the  outside.  Within  all  is  warm 
and  homelike.  The  furnishings  are  al- 
most as  the  poet  left  them,  and  the  marks 
of  his  individuality  are  on  every  side. 
188 


IDictor  f)ugo 


In  the  outer  hall  stands  an  elegant  col- 
umn of  carved  oak,  its  panels  showing 
scenes  from  The  Hunchback.  In  the  din- 
ing room  there  is  fantastic  wainscoting 
with  placques  and  porcelain  tiles  inlaid 
here  and  there.  Many  of  these  orna- 
ments were  presents,  sent  by  unknown 
admirers  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

In  Les  Miserables  there  is  a  chance 
line  revealing  the  author's  love  for  the 
beautiful  as  shown  in  the  grain  of  woods. 
The  result  was  an  influx  of  polished 
panels,  slabs,  chips,  hewings,  carvings, 
and  in  one  instance  a  log  sent  "  collect." 
Samples  of  redwood,  ebony,  calamander, 
hamalille,  sura,  tamarind,  satinwood, 
mahogany,  walnut,  maples  of  many  kinds 
and  oaks  without  limit — all  are  there.  A 
mammoth  ax  helve  I  noticed  on  the  wall 
was  labelled,  "Shag-bark  hickory  from 
Missouri." 

These  specimens  of  wood  were  some- 
times made  up  into  hat-racks,  chairs, 
canes,  panels  for  doors  and  are  seen  in 
odd  corners  of  these  rambling  rooms. 
189 


Gbe  f>aunt6  ot 


Charles  Hugo  once  facetiously  wrote  to  a 
friend  :  "  We  have  bought  no  kindling 
for  three  years."  At  another  time  he 
writes  :  "  Father  still  is  sure  he  can 
sketch  and  positive  he  can  carve.  He 
has  several  jack-knives,  and  whittles 
names,  dates,  and  emblems  on  sticks  and 
furniture — we  tremble  for  the  piano." 

In  the  dining-room  I  noticed  a  huge 
oaken  chair  fastened  to  the  wall  by  a 
chain.  On  the  mantel  was  a  statuette  of 
the  Virgin  ;  on  the  pedestal  Victor  Hugo 
had  engraved  lines  speaking  of  her  as 
"  Freedom's  Goddess." 

This  dining-room  affords  a  sunny  view 
out  into  the  garden  ;  on  this  floor  are 
also  a  reception-room,  library,  and  a 
smoking-room. 

On  the  next  floor  are  various  sleeping 
apartments,  and  two  cozy  parlors,  known 
respectively  as  the  red  room,  and  the 
blue.  Both  are  rich  in  curious  draperies, 
a  little  more  pronounced  in  color  than 
some  folks  admire. 

The  next  floor  contains  the  "  Oak  Gal- 
190 


IDictoc  f)U0O 


lary ' '  :  a  ball  room,  we  should  call  it. 
Five  large  windows  furnish  a  flood  of 
light.  In  the  centre  of  this  fine  room 
is  an  enormous  candelabrum  with  many 
branches,  at  the  top  a  statue  of  wood, 
the  whole  carved  by  Victor  Hugo's  own 
hands. 

The  Oak  Gallery  is  a  regular  museum 
of  curiosities  of  every  sort — books,  paint- 
ings, carvings,  busts,  firearms,  musical 
instruments.  A  long  glass  case  con- 
tains a  large  number  of  autograph  letters 
from  the  world's  celebrities  written  to 
Hugo  in  exile. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  and  built  on 
its  flat  roof  is  the  most  interesting  apart- 
ment of  Haute ville  House  :  the  study 
and  workroom  of  Victor  Hugo.  Three 
of  its  sides  and  the  roof  are  of  glass.  The 
floor,  too,  is  one  immense  slab  of  sea- 
green  glass.  Sliding  curtains  worked 
by  pulleys  cut  off  the  light  as  desired. 
"  More  light,  more  light,"  said  the  great 
man  again  and  again.  He  gloried  and 
revelled  in  the  sunshine. 
191 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


Here,  in  the  winter,  with  no  warmth 
but  the  sun's  rays,  his  eyes  shaded  by  his 
felt  hat,  he  wrote  ;  and  always  standing 
at  a  shelf  fixed  in  the  wall.  On  this 
shelf  was  written  all  of  The  Toilers,  The 
Man  who  Laughs,  Shakespeare,  and 
much  of  Les  Miserables.  The  leaves  of 
manuscript  were  numbered  and  fell  on 
the  floor  to  remain  perhaps  for  days  be- 
fore being  gathered  up. 

When  Victor  Hugo  went  to  Guernsey 
he  went  to  liberty,  not  to  banishment. 
He  arrived  at  Hauteville  House  poor  in 
purse  and  broken  in  health.  Here  the 
fire  of  his  youth  came  back  and  his  pen 
retrieved  the  fortune  that  royalty  had  con- 
fiscated. The  forenoons  were  given  to 
earnest  work.  The  daughter  composed 
music  ;  the  sons  translated  Shakespeare 
and  acted  as  their  father's  faithful  help- 
ers ;  Madame  Hugo  collected  the  notes  of 
her  husband's  life  and  cheerfully  looked 
after  her  household  affairs. 

Several  hours  of  each  afternoon  were 
,given  to  romp  and  play  ;  the  evenings 
192 


IDictor  1bugo 


were  sacred  to  music,  reading,  and  con- 
versation. 

Horace  Greeley  was  once  a  prisoner  in 
Paris.  From  his  cell  lie  wrote  :  "  The 
Saint  Peter  who  holds  the  keys  of  this 
place  has  kindly  locked  the  world  out ; 
and  for  once,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  free 
from  intrusion." 

Lovers  of  truth  must  thank  exile  for 
some  of  our  richest  and  ripest  literature. 
Exile  is  not  all  exile.  Imagination  can- 
not be  imprisoned.  Amid  the  winding 
bastions  of  the  brain  thought  roams  free 
and  untrammelled. 

Liberty  is  only  a  comparative  term,  and 
Victor  Hugo  at  Guernsey  enjoyed  a  thou- 
sand times  more  freedom  than  ever  ruling 
monarch  knew. 

Standing  at  the  shelf-desk  where  this 
"  Gentleman  of  France "  stood  for  so 
many  happy  hours,  I  inscribed  my  name 
in  the  "  visitors'  book." 

I  thanked  the  good  woman  who  had 
shown  me  the  place,  and  told  me  so 
much  of  interest — thanked  her  in  words 
193 


Victor  tnigo 


that  seemed  but  a  feeble  echo  of  all  that 
my  heart  would  say. 

I  went  down  the  stairs — out  at  the 
great  carved  doorway  and  descended  the 
well-worn  steps. 

Perched  on  a  crag  waiting  for  me  was 
little  Gavroche,  his  rags  fluttering  in  the 
breeze.  He  offered  to  show  me  the  great 
stone  chair  where  Gilliatt  sat  when  the 
tide  came  up  and  carried  him  away.  And 
did  I  want  to  buy  a  bull  calf?  Gavroche 
knew  where  there  was  a  fine  one  that 
could  be  bought  cheap.  Gavroche  would 
show  me  both  the  calf  and  the  stone  chair 
for  three  pence. 

I  accepted  the  offer,  and  we  went  down 
the  stony  street  toward  the  sea,  hand  in 
hand. 


194 


III. 

ON  the  28th  day  of  June,  1894, 1  took 
my  place  in  the  long  line  and 
passed  slowly  through  the  Pan- 
theon at  Paris  and  viewed  the  body  of 
President  Carnot. 

The  same  look  of  proud  dignity  that  I 
had  seen  in  life  was  there,  calm,  com- 
posed, serene.  The  inanimate  clay  was 
clothed  in  the  simple  black  of  a  citizen 
of  the  Republic  ;  the  only  mark  of  office 
being  the  red  silken  sash  that  covered  the 
spot  in  the  breast  where  the  stiletto  stroke 
of  hate  had  gone  home. 

Amid  bursts  of  applause,  surrounded  by 
loving  friends  and  loyal  adherents,  he 
was  stricken  down  and  passed  out  into 
the  Unknown.  Happy  fate  !  to  die  before 
the  fickle  populace  had  taken  up  a  new 
idol ;  to  step  in  an  instant  beyond  the 
195 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


reach  of  malice — to  leave  behind  the  self- 
seekers  that  pursue,  the  hungry  horde 
that  follows,  the  zealots  who  defame ;  to 
escape  the  dagger  thrust  of  calumny  and 
receive  only  the  glittering  steel  that  at 
the  same  time  wrote  his  name  indelibly 
on  the  roll  of  honor. 

Carnot,  thrice  happy  thou  !  Thy  name 
is  secure  on  history's  page,  and  thy  dust 
now  resting  beneath  the  dome  of  the 
Pantheon  is  bedewed  with  the  tears  of  thy 
countrymen. 

St.  Genevieve,  the  patron  saint  of  Paris, 
died  in  512.  She  was  buried  on  a  hilltop, 
the  highest  point  in  Paris,  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Seine.  Over  the  grave  was  erected 
a  chapel  which  for  many  years  was  a 
shrine  for  the  faithful.  This  chapel  with 
its  additions  remained  until  1750,  when  a 
church  was  designed  which  in  beauty  of 
style  and  solidity  of  structure  has  rarely 
been  equalled.  The  object  of  the  archi- 
tect was  to  make  the  most  enduring 
edifice  possible,  and  still  not  sacrifice 
proportion. 

196 


Wctor  DU0O 


Iyouis  XV.  laid  the  corner-stone  of  this 
church  in  1764,  and  in  1790  the  edifice  was 
dedicated  by  the  Roman  Catholics  with 
great  pomp.  But  the  spirit  of  revolution 
was  at  work,  and  in  one  year  after  a 
mob  sacked  this  beautiful  building, 
burned  its  pews,  destroyed  its  altar,  and 
wrought  havoc  with  its  ecclesiastical  fur- 
niture. 

The  Convention  converted  the  structure 
into  a  memorial  temple,  inscribing  on  its 
front  the  words  "  Aux  grands  Hommes 
la  patrie  reconnaisante,"  and  they  named 
the  building  the  Pantheon. 

In  1806  the  Catholics  had  gotten  such 
influence  with  the  government  that  the 
building  was  restored  to  them.  After  the 
revolution  of  1830  the  church  of  Saint 
Genevieve  was  again  taken  from  the 
priests.  It  was  held  until  1851,  when  the 
Romanists  in  the  Assembly  succeeded  in 
having  it  again  re-consecrated.  In  the 
meantime,  many  of  the  great  men  of 
France  had  been  buried  there. 

The  first  interment  in  the  Pantheon 
197 


Cbe  Daunts  ot 


was  Mirabeau.  Next  came  Marat — 
stabbed  while  in  the  bath  by  Charlotte 
Corday.  Both  bodies  were  removed  by 
order  of  the  Convention  when  the  church 
was  given  back  to  Rome. 

In  the  Pantheon  the  visitor  now  sees 
the  elaborate  tombs  of  Voltaire  and  Rous- 
seau. In  the  dim  twilight  he  reads  the 
glowing  inscriptions,  and  from  the  tomb 
of  Rousseau  he  sees  the  hand  thrust  forth 
bearing  a  torch,  but  the  bones  of  these 
men  are  not  here. 

While  robed  priests  chanted  the  litany, 
as  the  great  organ  pealed,  and  swinging 
censers  gave  off  their  perfume,  visitors 
came,  bringing  children,  and  they  stopped 
at  the  arches  where  Rousseau  and  Voltaire 
slept  side  by  side,  and  they  said  :  "It  is 
here."  And  so  the  dust  of  infidel  great- 
ness seemed  to  interfere  with  the  rites. 
A  change  must  be  made.  Let  Victor 
Hugo  tell : 

"  One  night  in  May,  1814,  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  cab  stopped 
near  the  city  gate  of  I^a  Gare  at  an  open- 
198 


Wctor  DU0O 


ing  in  a  board  fence.  This  fence  sur- 
rounded a  large  vacant  piece  of  ground 
belonging  to  the  city  of  Paris.  The  cab 
had  come  from  the  Pantheon,  and  the 
coachman  had  been  ordered  to  take  the 
most  deserted  streets.  Three  men  alighted 
from  the  cab  and  crawled  into  the  enclos- 
ure. Two  carried  a  sack  between  them. 
Other  men,  some  in  cassocks,  awaited 
them.  They  proceeded  towards  a  hole 
dug  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  hole  was  quicklime.  These 
men  said  nothing,  they  had  no  lanterns. 
The  wan  daybreak  gave  a  ghastly  light ; 
the  sack  was  opened.  It  was  full  of  bones. 
These  were  the  bones  of  Jean  Jacques  and 
Voltaire,  which  had  been  withdrawn  from 
the  Pantheon. 

"  The  mouth  of  the  sack  was  brought 
close  to  the  hole,  and  the  bones  rattled 
down  into  that  black  pit.  The  two  skulls 
struck  against  each  other  ;  a  spark,  not 
likely  to  be  seen  by  those  standing  near, 
was  doubtless  exchanged  between  the 
head  that  made  The  Philosophical  Die- 
199 


Gbe  founts  of 


tionary  and  the  head  that  made  The  So- 
cial Contract. 

"  When  that  was  done,  when  the  sack 
was  shaken,  when  Voltaire  and  Rousseau 
had  been  emptied  into  that  hole,  a  digger 
seized  a  spade,  threw  into  the  opening 
the  heap  of  earth,  and  filled  up  the  grave. 
The  others  stamped  with  their  feet  upon 
the  ground,  so  as  to  remove  from  it  the 
appearance  of  having  been  freshly  dis- 
turbed. One  of  the  assistants  took  for 
his  trouble  the  sack — as  the  hangman 
takes  the  clothing  of  his  victim — they 
left  the  enclosure,  got  into  the  cab  with- 
out saying  a  word,  and  hastily,  before  the 
sun  had  risen,  these  men  got  away." 

The  ashes  of  the  man  who  wrote  these 
vivid  words  now  rest  next  to  the  empty 
tombs  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  But  a 
step  away  is  the  grave  of  Sadi-Carnot. 

When  the  visitor  is  conducted  to  the 
crypt  of  the  Pantheon  he  is  taken  first  to 
the  tomb  of  Victor  Hugo.  The  sarcoph- 
agus on  either  side  is  draped  with  the 
red,  white,  and  blue  of  France  and  the 
200 


Dictor  1bugo 


stars  and  stripes  of  America.  With  un- 
covered heads,  we  behold  the  mass  of 
flowers  and  wreaths,  and  our  minds  go 
back  to  1885,  when  the  body  of  the  chief 
citizen  of  Paris  lay  in  state  at  the  Pan- 
theon and  five  hundred  thousand  people 
passed  by  and  laid  the  tribute  of  silence 
or  tears  on  his  bier. 

The  Pantheon  is  now  given  over  as  a 
memorial  to  the  men  of  France  who  have 
enriched  the  world  with  their  lives.  Over 
the  portals  of  this  beautiful  temple  are 
the  words,"  I^iberte,  £galite\  Fraternity." 
Across  its  floors  of  rarest  mosaic  echo  only 
the  feet  of  pilgrims  and  those  of  the 
courteous  and  kindly  old  soldiers  who 
have  the  place  in  charge.  On  the  walls 
color  revels  in  beautiful  paintings,  and  in 
the  niches  and  on  the  pedestals  is  marble 
that  speaks  of  greatness  which  lives  in 
lives  made  better. 

The  history  of  the  Pantheon  is  one  of 

strife.    As  late   as   1870  the   Commune 

made  it  a  stronghold,  and  the  streets  on 

every  side  were  called  upon  to  contribute 

201 


XLbc  f)aunt6  of 


their  paving  stones  for  a  barricade.  Yet 
it  seems  meet  that  Victor  Hugo's  dust 
should  lie  here  amid  the  scenes  he  loved 
and  knew,  and  where  he  struggled, 
worked,  toiled,  achieved  ;  from  whence 
he  was  banished,  and  to  which  he 
returned  in  triumph,  to  receive  at  last 
the  complete  approbation  so  long  with- 
held. 

Certainly  not  in  the  quiet  of  a  mossy 
graveyard,  nor  in  a  church  where  priests 
mumble  unmeaning  words  at  fixed  times, 
nor  yet  alone  on  the  mountain  side  :  for 
he  chafed  at  solitude,  but  he  should  have 
been  buried  at  sea.  In  the  midst  of  storm 
and  driving  sleet,  at  midnight  the  sails 
should  have  been  lowered,  the  great  en- 
gines stopped,  and  with  no  requiem  but 
the  sobbing  of  the  night  wind  and  the 
sighing  of  the  breeze  through  the  shrouds, 
and  the  moaning  of  the  waves  as  they 
surged  about  the  great  black  ship,  the 
plank  should  have  been  run  out  and  the 
body  wrapped  in  the  red,  white,  and  blue 
of  the  Republic:   the  sea,   the  infinite 


Wctor  fMGO 


mother  of  all,  the  sea,  beloved  and  sung 
by  him,  should  have  taken  his  tired  form 
to  her  arms,  and  there  he  would  rest. 
If  not  this,  then  the  Pantheon. 


203 


WORDSWORTH 


205 


Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 
Of  ebb  and  flow  and  ever-during  power  ; 
And  central  peace  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.    Here  you  stand, 
Adore  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not ; 
Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought ; 
Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

The  Excursion. 


206 


WORDSWORTH. 


i. 


A   MAN  has  told  us  that  heaven  is 
not  a  place,  and  it  is  possible  that 
he  is  right. 
But  if  heaven  is  a  place,  surely  it  is  not 
unlike    Grasmere.      Such  loveliness   of 
landscape — such  sylvan  stretches  of  crys- 
tal water — such  peace  and  quiet  and  rest ! 
Great,  green  hills  lift  their  heads  to  the 
skies   and  all  the   old  stone  walls   and 
hedgerows  are  covered  with  trailing  vines 
and  blooming  flowers.  The  air  is  rich  with 
song  of  birds,  sweet  with  perfume,  and 
the  blossoms  gaily  shower  their  petals  on 
the  passer-by.     Overhead  white,  billowy 
clouds  float  lazily  over  their  back-ground 
of  ethereal  blue.  Cool  June  breezes  fan 
207 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


the  cheek.  Distant  knolls  are  dotted  with 
flocks  of  sheep  whose  bells  tinkle  dream- 
ily ;  and  drowsy  hum  of  beetle  makes  the 
bass,  while  lark  song  forms  the  air  of  the 
sweet  symphony  that  nature  plays.  Such 
was  Grasmere  as  I  first  saw  it. 

To  love  the  plain,  homely,  common, 
simple  things  of  earth,  of  these  to  sing  ; 
to  make  the  familiar  beautiful  and  the 
commonplace  enchanting  ;  to  cause  each 
bush  to  burn  with  the  actual  presence  of 
the  living  God,  this  is  the  poet's  office. 
And  if  the  poet  lives  near  Grasmere,  his 
task  does  not  seem  difficult. 

From  1799  to  1808  Wordsworth  lived  at 
Dove  Cottage.  Thanks  to  a  few  earnest 
souls,  the  place  is  now  secured  to  the 
people  of  Kngland  and  the  lovers  of 
poetry  wherever  they  may  be.  A  good 
old  woman  has  charge  of  the  cottage  and 
for  a  slight  fee  shows  you  the  house  and 
garden  and  little  orchard  and  objects  of 
interest,  all  the  while  talking :  and  you 
are  glad,  for  although  unlettered,  she  is 
reverent  and  honest.  She  was  born  here, 
208 


IKaor&swortb 


and  all  she  knows  is  Wordsworth  and  the 
people  and  things  he  loved.  Is  not  this 
enough  ? 

Here  Wordsworth  lived  before  anything 
he  wrote  was  published  in  book  form : 
here  his  best  work  was  done,  and  here 
Dorothy,  splendid,  sympathetic  Dorothy 
was  inspiration,  critic,  friend.  But  who 
inspired  Dorothy?  Coleridge  perhaps 
more  than  all  others,  and  we  know  some- 
what of  their  relationship  as  told  in  Dor- 
othy's diary.  There  is  a  little  Words- 
worth Library  in  Dove  Cottage  and  I  sat 
at  the  window  of  "  De  Quincey's  room  " 
and  read  for  an  hour.  Says  Dorothy : 
"Sat  until  four  o'clock  reading  dear 
Coleridge's  letters."  "We  paced  the 
garden  until  moonrise  at  one  o'clock, 
we  three,  brother,  Coleridge,  and  I."  "I 
read  Spenser  to  him  aloud  and  then  we 
had  a  midnight  tea." 

Here  in  this  little,  terraced  garden,  be- 
hind the  stone  cottage  with  its  low  ceil- 
ings and  wide  window  seats  and  little 
diamond  panes,  she  in  her  misery  wrote  : 
209 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all !  Yet  there  is 
recompense  ;  every  sight  reminds  me  of 
Coleridge,  dear,  dear  fellow  ;  of  our  walks 
and  talks  by  day  and  night,  of  all  the 
bright  and  witty  and  sad  sweet  things  of 
which  we  spoke  and  read.  I  was  melan- 
choly and  could  not  talk,  and  at  last  I 
eased  my  heart  by  weeping." 

Alas,  too  often  there  is  competition  be- 
tween brother  and  sister ;  then  follow 
misunderstandings,  but  here  the  brotherly 
and  sisterly  love  stands  out  clear  and 
strong  after  these  hundred  years  have 
passed,  and  we  contemplate  it  with  de- 
light. Was  ever  woman  more  honestly 
and  better  praised  than  Dorothy  ? 


The  blessings  of  my  later  years 

Were  with  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares  and  gentle  fears, 
A  heart  !  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 

And  love  and  thought  and  joy. 
And  she  hath  smiles  to  earth  unknown, 
Smiles  that  with  motion  of  their  own 

Do  spread  and  sink  and  rise  ; 
That  come  and  go  with  endless  play, 
And  ever  as  they  pass  away 

Are  hidden  in  her  eyes." 

2IO 


Ildor&swortb 


And  so  in  a  dozen  or  more  poems,  we 
see  Dorothy  reflected.  She  was  the  steel 
on  which  he  tried  his  flint.  Everything 
he  wrote  was  read  to  her,  then  she  read  it 
alone,  balancing  the  sentences  in  the  del- 
icate scales  of  her  womanly  judgment. 
"  Heart  of  my  heart,  is  this  well  done  ?  " 
When  she  said,  "This  will  do,"  it  was  no 
matter  who  said  otherwise. 

Back  of  the  house  on  the  rising  hillside 
is  the  little  garden.  Hewn  out  of  the  solid 
rock  is  "  Dorothy's  seat."  There  I  rested 
while  Mrs.  Dixon  discoursed  of  poet  lore, 
and  told  me  of  how,  many  times,  Cole- 
ridge and  Dorothy  had  sat  in  the  same 
seat  and  watched  the  stars. 

Then  I  drank  from  "  the  well,"  which 
is  more  properly  a  spring  ;  the  stones 
that  curb  it  were  placed  in  their  present 
position  by  the  hand  that  wrote  The 
Prelude.  Above  the  garden  is  the  orchard 
where  the  green  linnet  still  sings;  for 
the  birds  never  grow  old. 

There  too  are  the  circling  swallows  ; 
and  in  a  snug  little  alcove  of  the  cottage 

211 


Gbe  Ibaunts  ot 


you  can  read  The  Butterfly  from  a  first 
edition  ;  and  then  you  can  go  sit  in  the 
orchard,  white  with  blossoms,  and  see  the 
butterflies  that  suggested  the  poem.  And 
if  your  eye  is  good  you  can  discover  down 
by  the  lakeside  the  daffodils  and  listen 
the  while  to  the  cuckoo  call. 

Then  in  the  orchard  you  can  see  not 
only  "  the  daisy  "  but  many  of  them,  and, 
if  you  wish,  Mrs.  Dixon  will  let  you  dig  a 
bunch  of  the  daisies  to  take  back  to  Amer- 
ica :  and  if  you  do,  I  hope  that  yours  will 
prosper  as  have  mine  and  that  Words- 
worth's flowers,  like  Wordsworth's  verse, 
will  gladden  your  heart  when  the  blue  sky 
of  your  life  threatens  to  be  o'ercast  with 
gray. 

Here  Southey  came  :  and  Thalaber  was 
read  aloud  in  this  little  garden.  Here 
too  came  Clarkson,  the  man  with  a  fine 
feminine  carelessness,  as  Dorothy  said. 
Charles  Lloyd  sat  here  and  discoursed 
with  Wm.  Calvert.  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont forgot  his  title  and  rapped  often  at 
the  quaint  hinged  door.  An  artist  was 
212 


TKflorfcswortb 


Beaumont,  but  his  best  picture  they  say 
is  not  equal  to  the  lines  that  Words- 
worth wrote  about  it.  Sir  George  was  not 
only  a  gentleman  according  to  law,  but 
one  in  heart,  for  he  was  a  friend,  kind, 
gentle  and  generous.  With  such  a  friend 
Wordsworth  was  rich  indeed.  But  per- 
haps the  friends  we  have  are  only  our 
other  selves  and  we  get  what  we  deserve. 

We  must  not  forget  the  kindly  face  of 
Humphry  Davy,  whose  gracious  playful- 
ness was  ever  a  charm  to  the  Words- 
worths.  The  safety  lamp  was  then  only 
an  unspoken  word,  and  perhaps  few  fore- 
saw the  sweetness  and  light  that  these  two 
men  would  yet  give  to  earth. 

Walter  Scott  and  his  wife  came  to  Dove 
Cottage  in  1805.  He  did  not  bring  his  title, 
for  it,  like  Humphry  Davy's,  was  as  yet 
unpacked  down  in  London  town.  They 
slept  in  the  little  cubby-hole  of  a  room  in 
the  upper  southwest  corner.  One  can 
imagine  Dorothy  taking  Sir  Walter's 
shaving  water  up  to  him  in  the  morning  : 
and  the  savory  smell  of  breakfast  as  Mis- 
213 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


tress  Mary  poured  the  tea,  while  Eng- 
land's future  laureate  served  the  toast 
and  eggs :  Mr.  Scott  eating  everything 
in  sight  and  talking  a  torrent  the  while 
about  art  and  philosophy  as  he  passed  his 
cup  back,  to  the  consternation  of  the 
hostess  whose  frugal  ways  were  not  used 
to  such  ravages  of  appetite.  Of  course 
she  did  not  know  that  a  combined  novel- 
ist and  rhymster  ate  twice  as  much  as  a 
simple  poet. 

Afterwards  Mrs.  Scott  tucked  up  her 
dress,  putting  on  one  of  Dorothy's  aprons, 
and  helped  do  the  dishes.  Then  Cole- 
ridge came  over  and  they  all  climbed  to 
the  summit  of  Helm  Crag. 

Shy  little  De  Quincey  had  read  some  of 
Wordsworth's  poems,  and  knew  from 
their  flavor  that  the  man  who  penned 
them  was  a  noble  soul.  He  came  to  Gras- 
mere  to  call  on  him  :  he  walked  past 
Dove  Cottage  twice,  but  his  heart  failed 
him  and  he  went  away  unannounced. 
Later  he  returned  and  found  the  occu- 
pants as  simple  folks  as  himself.  Happi- 
214 


•MorDswortb 


ness  was  there  and  good  society ;  few 
books  but  fine  culture  ;  plain  living  and 
high  thinking. 

Wordsworth  lived  at  Rydal  Mount  for 
thirty-three  years,  yet  the  sweetest  flowers 
of  his  life  blossomed  at  Dove  Cottage. 
For  difficulty,  toil,  struggle,  obscurity, 
poverty  mixed  with  aspiration  and  ambi- 
tion,— all  these  were  here.  Success  came 
later  but  this  is  naught,  for  the  achieve- 
ment is  more  than  the  public  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  deed. 

After  Wordsworth  moved  away,  De 
Quincey  rented  Dove  Cottage  and  lived 
in  it  for  twenty-seven  years.  He  ac- 
quired a  library  of  over  five  thousand 
volumes,  making  book  shelves  on  four 
side  of  the  little  rooms  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing. Some  of  these  shelves  still  remain. 
Here  he  turned  night  into  day  and 
dreamed  the  dreams  of  "The  Opium 
Eater." 

And  all  these  are  some  of  the  things 
that  Mrs.  Dixon  told  me  on  that  bright 
summer  day.  What  if  I  had  heard  them 
215 


TJGlor&swortb 


before !  no  difference.  Dear  old  lady,  I 
salute  you  and  at  your  feet  I  lay  my  grati- 
tude for  a  day  of  rare  and  quiet  joy. 

"  Farewell,  thou  little  nook  of  mountain  ground, 
Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  does  bound 
One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  gardens  rare, 
Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  has  ever  found, 
Farewell !    We  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful 

care, 
Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  sur- 
round." 


2i6 


II. 


IN  the  far  West  at  places  of  pleasure 
and  entertainment  are  often  found 
functionaries  known  as  "bouncers." 
It  is  the  duty  of  the  bouncer  to  give 
hints  to  objectionable  visitors  that  their 
presence  is  not  desired.  And  inasmuch 
as  there  are  many  men  who  can  never 
take  a  hint  without  a  kick,  the  bouncer 
is  a  person  selected  on  account  of  his 
peculiar  fitness — psychic  and  otherwise — 
for  the  place.  We  all  have  special  talents, 
and  these  faculties  should  be  used  in  a 
manner  that  will  help  our  fellow-men  on 
their  way. 

My  acquaintanceship  with  the  bouncer 

has  been   only   general,    not  particular. 

Yet  I  have  admired  him  from  a  distance, 

and  the  skill  and  eclat  that  he  sometimes 

217 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


shows  in  a  professional  way  has  often  ex- 
cited my  admiration. 

In  social  usages  America  borrows  con- 
stantly from  the  mother  country.  But 
like  all  borrowing  it  seems  to  be  one- 
sided, for  seldom,  very,  very  seldom  in 
point  of  etiquette  and  manners  does  Eng- 
land borrow  from  us.  Yet  there  are  ex- 
ceptions. 

It  is  a  beautiful  highway  that  skirts 
Lake  Windermere  and  follows  up  through 
Ambleside.  We  get  a  glimpse  of  the  old 
home  of  Harriet  Martin eau,  and  "Fox 
Howe,"  the  home  of  Matthew  Arnold. 
Just  before  Rydal  Water  is  reached  comes 
Rydal  Road,  running  straight  up  the 
hillside,  off  from  the  turnpike.  Rydal 
Mount  is  the  third  house  up  on  the  left- 
hand  side.  I  knew  the  location,  for  I  had 
read  of  it  many  times,  and  in  my  pocket- 
book  I  carried  a  picture  taken  from  an 
old  Frank  Leslie's,  showing  the  house. 

My  heart  beat  fast  as  I  climbed  the  hill. 
To  visit  the  old  home  of  one  who  was  Poet 
Laureate  of  England  is  no  small  event  in 
218 


TUftorDswortb 


the  life  of  a  book  lover.  I  was  full  of 
poetry  and  murmured  lines  from  the 
Excursion  as  I  walked.  Soon  rare  old 
Rydal  Mount  came  in  sight  among  the 
wealth  of  green.  I  stopped  and  sighed. 
Yes,  yes,  Wordsworth  lived  here  for 
thirty-three  years,  and  here  he  died  ;  the 
spot  whereon  I  then  stood  had  been 
pressed  many  times  by  his  feet.  I  walked 
slowly,  with  uncovered  head  and  ap- 
proached the  gate.  It  was  locked.  I 
fumbled  at  the  latch  and  just  as  there 
came  a  prospect  of  its  opening  a  loud 
deep,  guttural  voice  dashed  over  me  like 
a  wave  : 

11  There — you  !  now  wot  you  want  ?  " 
The  owner  of  this  voice  was  not  ten  feet 
away,  but  he  was  standing  up  close  to  the 
wall  and  I  had  not  seen  him.  I  was  some- 
what startled  at  first.  The  man  did  not 
move.  I  stepped  to  one  side  to  get  a  bet- 
ter view  of  my  interlocutor,  and  saw  him 
to  be  a  large,  red  man  of  perhaps  fifty. 
A  handkerchief  was  knotted  around  his 
thick  neck  and  he  held  a  heavy  hoe  in 
219 


£be  Ibaunts  of 


his  hand.  A  genuine  beefeater  he  was, 
only  he  ate  too  much  beef  and  the  ale 
he  drank  was  evidently  extra  XXX. 

His  scowl  was  so  needlessly  severe  and 
his  manner  so  belligerent  that  I— thrice 
armed,  knowing  my  cause  was  just — could 
not  restrain  a  smile.  I  touched  my  hat 
and  said,  "  Ah,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Falstaff, 
you  are  the  bouncer?  " 

"Never  mind  wot  I  am,  sir,  'oo  are 
you?" 

"I  am  a  great  admirer  of  Words- 
worth  " 

"That's  the  way  they  all  begins. 
Cawn't  ye  hadmire  'im  on  that  side  of  the 
wall  as  well  as  this  ?  " 

There  is  no  use  of  wasting  argument 
with  a  man  of  this  stamp  ;  besides  that, 
his  question  was  to  the  point.  But 
there  are  several  ways  of  overcoming 
one 's  adversary  :  I  began  feeling  in  my 
pocket  for  pence.  My  enemy  ceased 
glaring,  stepped  up  to  the  locked  gate  as 
though  he  half  wished  to  be  friendly,  and 
there  was  sorrow  in  his  voice  : 
220 


IKHorDswortb 


"Don't  tempt  me,  sir,  don't  do  ut. 
The  Missus  is  peekin'  out  of  the  shutters 
at  us  now." 

"  And  do  you  never  admit  visitors,  even 
to  the  grounds?" 

"  No,  sir,  never,  God  'elp  me !  and 
there  's  many  an  honest  bob  I  could  turn 
by  ut,  and  no  one  'urt.  But  I  've  lost  my 
place  twic't  by  ut.  They  took  me  back 
though.  The  Guv'ner  'ud  never  forgive 
me  again.  '  It 's  three  times  and  out, 
Mister  'Opkins,'  says  'ee,  only  last  Whit- 
suntide." 

u  But  visitors  do  come  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  but  they  never  gets  in — 
Mostly  'mer'cans,  they  don't  know  no 
better,  sir.  They  picks  all  the  ivy  orf  the 
outside  of  the  wall,  and  you  sees  yourself 
there  's  no  leaves  on  the  lower  branches 
of  that  tree.  Then  they  carries  away  so 
many  pebbles  from  out  there  that  I  'ave 
to  dump  in  a  fresh  weel-barrel  full  o' 
gravel  every  week,  sir,  don't  you  know." 

He  thrust  a  pudgy,  freckled  hand 
through  the  bars  of  the  gate  to  show  that 


Wor&swortb 


he  bore  me  no  ill  will,  and  also,  I  suppose, 
to  mollify  my  disappointment.  For  al- 
though I  had  come  too  late  to  see  the  great 
poet  himself  and  had  even  failed  to  see  the 
inside  of  his  house,  yet  I  had  at  least  been 
greeted  at  the  gate  by  his  proxy.  I 
pressed  the  hand  firml)%  pocketed  a  hand- 
ful of  gravel  as  a  memento,  then  turned 
and  went  my  way. 

And  all  there  is  to  tell  about  my  visit  to 
Rydal  Mount  is  this  interview  with  the 
bouncer. 


III. 

WORDSWORTH  lived  eighty 
years.    His  habitation,  except- 
ing   for    short    periods,    was 
never  more  than  a  few  miles   from  his 
birthplace. 

His  education  was  not  extensive,  his 
learning  not  profound.  He  lacked  humor 
and  passion  ;  in  his  character  there  was 
little  personal  magnetism  and  in  his  work 
there  is  small  dramatic  power. 

He  travelled  more  or  less  and  knew  hu- 
manity but  he  did  not  know  man.  His 
experience  in  so-called  practical  things 
was  slight,  his  judgment  not  accurate. 
So  he  lived — quietly,  modestly,  dreamily. 
His  dust  rests  in  a  country  churchyard, 
the  grave  marked  by  a  simple  slab.  A 
gnarled  old  yew  tree  stands  guard  above 
223 


XLbe  Ibaunts  of 


the  grass-grown  mound.   The  nearest  rail- 
road is  fifteen  miles  away. 

As  a  poet  Wordsworth  stands  in  the 
front  rank  of  the  second  class.  Shelley, 
Browning,  Mrs.  Browning,  Tennyson,  far 
surpassing  him  ;  and  the  sweet  singer  of 
Michigan,  even  in  uninspired  moments, 
never  "  threw  off"  anything  worse  than 
this: 

"  And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick  : 

His  body  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swollen  and  thick ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
I^ives  with  him  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common." 

Jove  may  nod  but  when  he  makes  a 
move  it  counts. 

Yet  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  upon 
the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  world  has 
been  very  great.  He  himself  said  :  "  The 
young  will  read  my  poems  and  be  better 
for  their  truth."  Many  of  his  lines  pass 
as  current  coin.  "  The  child  is  father  of 
the  man,"  "The  light  that  never  was 
224 


TKIlor&swortb 


on  land  nor  sea,"  "  Not  too  bright  and 
good  for  human  nature's  daily  food," 
"  Thoughts  that  do  lie  too  deep  for  tears," 
"The  mighty  stream  of  tendency,"  and 
many  others.  "  Plain  living  and  high 
thinking"  is  generally  given  to  Emer- 
son, but  he  discovered  it  in  Wordsworth, 
and  recognizing  it  as  his  own  he  took  it. 
In  a  certain  book  of  quotations,  "  The 
still  sad  music  of  humanity  "  is  given  to 
Shakespeare,  but  to  equalize  matters  we 
sometimes  attribute  to  Wordsworth  The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket. 

The  men  who  win  are  those  who  cor- 
rect an  abuse.  Wordsworth's  work  was 
a  protest — mild  yet  firm — against  the 
bombastic  and  artificial  school  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Before  his  day  the 
"timber  "  used  by  poets  consisted  of 
angels,  devils,  ghosts,  gods  ;  onslaught, 
tourneys,  jousts,  tempests  of  hate  and 
torrents  of  wrath,  always  of  course  with 
a  very  beautiful  and  very  susceptible 
young  lady  just  around  the  corner.  The 
women  in  those  days  were  always  young 
225 


Gbe  Ibaunts  or 


and  ever  beautiful,  but  seldom  wise  and 
not  often  good.  The  men  were  saints  or 
else  "  bad,"  generally  bad.  They  fought 
like  the  cats  of  Kilkenny,  on  slight 
cause. 

Our  young  man  at  Hawkshead  school 
saw  this  ;  it  pleased  him  not,  and  he  made 
a  list  of  the  things  on  which  he  would 
write  poems.  This  list  includes  :  sunset, 
moonrise,  starlight,  mist,  brooks,  shells, 
stones,  butterflies,  moths,  swallows,  lin- 
nets, thrushes,  wagoners,  babies,  bark  of 
trees,  leaves,  nests,  fishes,  rushes,  leeches, 
cobwebs,  clouds,  deer,  music,  shade, 
swans,  crags,  and  snow.  He  kept  his  vow 
and  "  went  it  one  better,"  for  among  his 
verses  I  find  the  following  titles  : 

Lines  Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-Tree, 
Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tin- 
tern  Abbey,  To  a  Wounded  Butterfly, 
To  Dora's  Portrait,  To  the  Cuckoo,  On 
Seeing  a  Needle-Book  made  in  the  Shape 
of  a  Harp,  etc. 

Wordsworth's  service  to  humanity  con- 
sists in  the  fact  that  he  has  shown  us  old 
226 


XCZorDswortb 


truth  in  a  new  light,  and  made  plain  the 
close  relationship  that  exists  between 
physical  nature  and  the  soul  of  man.  Is 
this  much  or  little  ?  I  think  it  is  much. 
When  we  realize  that  we  are  a  part  of  all 
that  we  see,  or  hear,  or  feel,  we  are  not 
lonely.  But  to  feel  a  sense  of  separation 
is  to  feel  the  chill  of  death. 

Wordsworth  taught  that  the  earth  is 
the  universal  Mother,  and  that  the  life  of 
the  flower  has  its  source  in  the  same  uni- 
versal life  from  whence  ours  is  derived. 
To  know  this  truth  is  to  feel  a  tenderness, 
a  kindliness,  a  spirit  of  fraternalism,  to- 
ward every  manifestation  of  this  universal 
life.  No  attempt  was  made  to  say  the 
last  word,  only  a  wish  to  express  the 
truth  that  the  Spirit  of  God  is  manifest 
on  every  hand. 

Now  this  is  a  very  simple  philosophy. 
No  far-reaching,  syllogistic  logic  is  re- 
quired to  prove  it ;  no  miracle,  nor  spe- 
cial dispensation  is  needed  ;  you  just  feel 
that  it  is  so,  that 's  all,  and  it  gives  you 
peace.  Children,  foolish  folks,  old  men, 
227 


Gbe  1baunt0  of 


whose  sands  of  life  are  nearly  run,  com- 
prehend it. 

But  heaven  bless  you !  you  can't  prove 
any  such  foolishness.  Jeffrey  saw  the 
ridiculousness  of  these  assumptions  and 
so  he  declared,  "This  will  never  do,"  and 
for  twenty  years  The  Edinburgh  Review 
never  ceased  to  fling  off  fleers  and  jeers — 
and  to  criticise  and  scoff.  That  a  great 
periodical,  rich  and  influential,  in  the  city 
which  was  the  very  centre  of  learning, 
should  go  so  much  out  of  its  way  to  at- 
tack a  quiet  countryman  living  in  a  four- 
roomed  cottage,  away  off  in  the  hills  of 
Cumberland,  seems  a  little  queer. 

Then,  this  countryman  did  not  seek  to 
found  a  kingdom,  nor  to  revolutionize 
society,  nor  did  he  force  his  patty-pan 
rhymes  about  linnets,  and  larks,  and  daf- 
fodils, upon  the  world.  Far  from  it ;  he 
was  very  modest,  diffident,  in  fact,  and 
his  song  was  quite  in  the  minor  key,  but 
still  the  chain-shot  and  bombs  of  literary 
warfare  were  sent  hissing  in  his  direction. 

There  is  a  little  story  about  a  certain 
228 


THflorDswortb 


general  who  figured  as  division-comman- 
der in  the  War  of  Secession  :  this  war- 
rior had  his  headquarters,  for  a  time,  in 
a  typical  southern  home  in  the  Tennessee 
Mountains.  The  house  had  a  large  fire- 
place and  chimney  ;  in  this  chimney  swal- 
lows had  nests.  One  day,  as  the  great 
man  was  busy  at  his  maps,  working  out 
a  plan  of  campaign  against  the  enemy, 
the  swallows  made  quite  an  uproar.  Per- 
haps some  of  the  eggs  were  hatching ; 
anyway,  the  birds  were  needlessly  noisy 
in  their  domestic  affairs  and  it  disturbed 
the  great  man — he  grew  nervous.  He 
called  his  adjutant :  "  Sir,"  said  the 
mighty  warrior,  "dislodge  those  damn 
pests  in  the  chimney,  without  delay." 

Two  soldiers  were  ordered  to  climb  the 
roof  and  dislodge  the  enemy.  And  the 
swallows  were  dislodged. 

But  Jeffrey's  tirades  were  unavailing, 
and  Wordsworth  was  not  dislodged. 

"He  might  as  well  try  to  crush  Skid- 
daw,"  said  Southey. 


229 


'" 


br^Vo^Lo^kjA^M 


THACKERAY 


231 


TO  MR.  BROOKFIEU). 

Sept.  16,  1849. 

Have  you  read  Dickens  ?  Oh,  it  is  charming ! 
Brave  Dickens  !  David  Copperfield  has  some  of 
his  prettiest  touches,  and  the  reading  of  the  book 
has  done  another  author  a  great  deal  of  good. 

W.  M.  T. 


233 


THACKERAY. 


i. 

IN  every  community  there  are  certain 
good  old  ladies  who  wear  perennial 
mourning.  They  attend  every  fun- 
eral, carrying  black  bordered  handker- 
chiefs, and  weep  gently  at  the  right  time. 
I  have  made  it  a  point  to  hunt  out  these 
ancient  dames  at  their  homes,  and,  over 
the  teacups,  I  have  discovered  that  inva- 
riably they  enjoy  a  sweet  peace — a  happi- 
ness with  contentment  that  is  great  gain. 
They  seem  to  be  civilization's  rudimen- 
tary relics  of  the  Irish  keeners  and  paid 
mourners  of  the  Orient. 

And  there  is  just  a  little  of  this  ten- 
dency to  mourn  with  those  who  mourn 
in  all  mankind.     It  is  not  difficult  to  bear 
235 


Gbe  f>aunt0  ot 


another's  woe — and  then  there  is  always 
a  grain  of  mitigation,  even  in  the  sorrow 
of  the  afflicted,  that  makes  tribulation 
bearable. 

Burke  on  the  Sublime  affirms  that  all 
men  take  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the 
disasters  of  others.  Just  as  Frenchmen 
lift  their  hats  when  a  funeral  passes  and 
thank  God  that  they  are  not  in  the  hearse, 
so  do  we  in  the  presence  of  calamity 
thank  heaven  that  it  is  not  ours. 

Perhaps  this  is  why  I  get  a  strange 
delight  from  walking  through  a  grave- 
yard by  night.  All  about  are  the  white 
monuments  that  glisten  in  the  ghostly 
starlight,  the  night  wind  sighs  softly 
among  the  grassy  mounds — all  else  is 
silent — still.  This  is  the  city  of  the  dead, 
and  of  all  the  hundreds  or  thousands  who 
have  travelled  to  this  spot  over  long  and 
weary  miles,  I,  only  I,  have  the  power  to 
leave  at  will.  Their  ears  are  stopped, 
their  eyes  are  closed,  their  hands  are 
folded — but  I  am  alive. 

One  of  the  first  places  I  visited  on  reach- 
236 


GbacftetaB 


ing  London  was  Kensal  Green  Cemetery. 
I  quickly  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
First  Gravedigger,  a  rare  wit  over  whose 
gray  head  have  passed  full  seventy  pleas- 
ant summers.  I  presented  him  a  copy  of 
The  Shroudy  the  organ  of  the  American 
Undertakers'  Association,  published  at 
Syracuse,  N.  Y.  I  subscribe  for  The 
Shroud  because  it  has  a  bright  wit  and 
humor  column,  and  also  for  the  sweet 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  there  is  still 
virtue  left  in  Syracuse. 

The  First  Gravedigger  greeted  me 
courteously,  and  when  I  explained  briefly 
my  posthumous  predilections  we  grasped 
hands  across  an  open  grave  (that  he  had 
just  digged)  and  were  fast  friends. 

"Do  you  believe  in  cremation,  sir?" 
he  asked. 

"  No,  never,  it 's  pagan." 

"  Aye,  you  are  a  gentleman — and  about 
burying  folks  in  churches  ?  " 

"  Never ;  a  grave  should  be  out  under 
the  open  sky,  where  the  sun  by  day  and 
the  moon  and  stars — " 
237 


ttbe  tmunts  of 


u  Right  you  are. — How  Shakespeare 
can  ever  stand  it  to  have  his  grave  walked 
over  by  a  boy  choir  is  more  than  I  can 
understand — If  I  had  him  here  I  could 
look  after  him  right.  Come,  I  '11  show 
you  the  company  I  keep  !  " 

Not  twenty  feet  from  where  we  stood 
was  a  fine  but  plain  granite  block  to 
the  memory  of  the  second  wife  of  James 
Russell  Lowell. 

"Just  Mr.  Lowell  and  one  friend  stood 
by  the  grave  when  we  lowered  the  coffin 
—just  those  two  men  and  no  one  else  but 
the  young  clergyman  who  belongs  here — 
Mr.  Lowell  shook  hands  with  me  when 
he  went  away.  He  gave  me  a  guinea 
and  wrote  me  two  letters  afterward  from 
America,  the  last  was  sent  only  a  week 
before  he  died.  I  '11  show  'em  to  you 
when  we  go  to  the  office.  Say,  did  you 
know  him?" 

He  pointed  to  a  slab,  on  which  I  read 

the  name  of  Sidney  Smith.   Then  we  went 

to  the  graves  of  Mulready  the  painter, 

Kemble    the    actor,    Sir    Charles    Bast- 

238 


GbacfcetaB 


lake  the  artist.  Next  came  the  resting 
place  of  Buckle — immortal  for  writing  a 
preface — dead  at  thirty-seven  with  his 
history  unwrit ;  Leigh  Hunt  sleeps  near, 
and  above  his  dust  a  column  that  explains 
how  it  was  erected  by  friends.  In  life 
he  asked  for  bread,  when  dead  they  gave 
him  a  costly  pile  of  stone. 

Here  are  also  the  graves  of  Madame 
Tietjens  ;  Charles  Mathews,  the  actor  ; 
and  Sir  John  Ross,  the  Arctic  explorer. 

"  And  just  down  the  hill  a  ways  another 
big  man  is  buried.  I  knew  him  well;  he 
used  to  come  and  visit  us  often.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him  I  said  as  he  was  going 
away,  'Come  again,  sir,  you  are  always 
welcome ! '  " 

'"Thank  you,  Mr.  First  Gravedigger,' 
says  he,  '  I  will  come  again  before 
long,  and  make  you  an  extended  visit.' 
In  less  than  a  year  the  hearse  brought 
him.  That's  his  grave — push  that  ivy 
away  and  you  can  read  the  inscription. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ?  " 

It  was  a  plain  heavy  slab  placed  hori- 
239 


Gbe  t)aunts  of 


zontally  and  the  ivy  had  so  run  over  it 
that  the  white  of  the  marble  was  nearly 
obscured.  But  I  made  out  this  inscrip- 
tion : 

WHJJAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 
Born  July  18,  1811  ; 
Died  Dec.  24, 1863. 

ANNE  CARMICHAEI,  SMYTH, 
Died  Dec.  18, 1864,  aged  72— his  mother  by  her 
first  marriage. 

The  unpoetic  exactness  of  that  pedi- 
gree gave  me  a  slight  chill.  But  here 
they  sleep — mother  and  son  in  one  grave. 
She  who  gave  him  his  first  caress  also 
gave  him  his  last ;  and  when  he  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed,  his  mother  who 
lived  under  the  same  roof  was  the  first 
one  called.  He  was  the  child  of  her  girl- 
hood— she  was  scarcely  twenty  when  she 
bore  him.  In  life  they  were  never  sep- 
arated and  in  death  they  are  not  divided. 
It  is  as  both  desired. 

Thackeray  was  born  in  India,  and  was 

brought  to  England  on  the  death  of  his 

father,  when  he  was  six  years  of  age.     On 

the  way  from  Calcutta  the  ship  touched 

240 


GbacfceraB 


at  the  Island  of  St.  Helena.  A  servant 
took  the  lad  ashore  and  they  walked  up 
the  rocky  heights  to  Bowood  and  there, 
pacing  back  and  forth  in  a  garden,  they 
saw  a  short,  stout  man. 

"Ivookee,  lad,  lookee  quick — that's 
him,  he  eats  three  sheep  every  day  and 
all  the  children  he  can  get !  " 

"  And  that 's  all  I  had  to  do  with  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,"  said  "Old  Thack," 
forty  years  after.  But  you  will  never 
believe  it  after  reading  those  masterly 
touches  concerning  the  battle,  in  Vanity 
Fair. 

Young  Thackeray  was  sent  to  the  Char- 
terhouse school,  where  he  was  considered 
rather  a  dull  boy.  He  was  big  and  good- 
natured,  and  read  novels  when  he  should 
have  studied  arithmetic.  This  tendency 
to  "play  off"  stuck  to  him  at  Cam- 
bridge^— where  he  did  not  remain  long 
enough  to  get  a  degree,  but  to  the  relief 
of  his  tutors  went  off  on  a  tour  through 
Europe. 

Travel  as  a  means  of  education  is  a 
241 


Gbe  f>auntg  of 


very  seductive  bit  of  sophistry.  Invalids 
whom  the  doctors  cannot  cure  and  schol- 
ars whom  teachers  cannot  teach  are  often 
advised  to  take  "  a  change."  Still  there 
is  reason  in  it. 

In  England  Thackeray  was  intent  on 
law ;  at  Paris  he  received  a  strong  bent 
toward  art ;  but  when  he  reached  Weimar 
and  was  introduced  at  the  Court  of  Let- 
ters and  came  into  the  living  presence  of 
Goethe  he  caught  the  infection  and  made 
a  plan  for  translating  Schiller. 

Schiller  dead  was  considered  in  Ger- 
many a  greater  man  than  Goethe  living, 
as  if  't  were  an  offense  to  live  and  a  vir- 
tue to  die.  And  young  William  Make- 
peace wrote  home  to  his  mother  that 
Schiller  was  the  greatest  man  that  ever 
lived  and  that  he  was  going  to  translate 
his  books  and  give  them  to  England. 

No  doubt  there  are  certain  people  born 
with  a  tendency  to  infectiousness  in  re- 
gard to  certain  diseases,  so  there  are  those 
who  catch  the  literary  mania  on  slight 
exposure. 

242 


GbacfceraB 


"I've  got  it,"  said  Thackeray,  and  so 
he  had. 

He  went  back  to  England  and  made 
groggy  efforts  at  Blackstone,  and  Some- 
body's Digest,  and  What  's-his-name's 
Compendium,  but  all  the  time  he  scribbled 
and  sketched. 

The  young  man  had  come  into  posses- 
sion of  a  goodly  fortune  from  his  father's 
estate — enough  to  yield  him  an  income 
of  over  two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  But 
bad  investments  and  signing  security  for 
friends  took  the  money  the  way  that 
money  usually  goes  when  held  by  a  man 
who  has  not  earned  it. 

"  Talk  about  riches  having  wings,"  said 
Thackeray,  "my  fortune  had  pinions  like 
a  condor,  and  flew  like  a  carrier  pigeon." 

When  Thackeray  was  thirty  he  was  ek- 
ing out  a  meagre  income  writing  poems, 
reviews,  criticisms,  and  editorials.  His 
wife  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  a  victim  of 
mental  darkness,  and  his  sorrows  and 
anxieties  were  many. 

He  was  known  as  a  bright  writer,  yet 
243 


Zbe  fjaunts  of 


London  is  full  of  clever,  unsuccessful 
men.  But  in  Thackeray's  thirty-eighth 
year  Vanity  Fair  came  out,  and  it  was  a 
success  from  the  first. 

In  Yesterdays  with  Authors,  Mr.  Fields 
says  :  "  I  once  made  a  pilgrimage  with 
Thackeray  to  the  various  houses  where 
his  books  had  been  written;  and  I  re- 
member when  we  came  to  Young  Street, 
Kensington,  he  said,  with  mock  gravity, 
'Down  on  your  knees,  you  rogue,  for 
here  Vanity  Fair  was  penned  ;  and  I 
will  go  down  with  you  for  I  have  a  high 
opinion  of  that  little  production  my- 
self.' " 

Young  Street  is  only  a  block  from  the 
Kensington  Metropolitan  Railway  sta- 
tion. It  is  a  little  street  running  off 
Kensington  Road.  At  Number  16,  (for- 
merly No.  13,)  I  saw  a  card  in  the 
window,  "Rooms  to  rent  to  Single  Gen- 
tlemen." 

I  rang  the  bell,  and  was  shown  a  room 
that  the  landlady  offered  me  for  twelve 
shillings  a  week  if  I  paid  in  advance  ;  or 
244 


GbackecaB 


if  I  would  take  another  room  one  flight 
up  with  a  "gent  who  was  studying  hart  ** 
it  would  be  only  eight  and  six.  I  sug- 
gested that  we  go  up  and  see  the  "  gent." 
We  did  so,  and  I  found  the  young  man 
very  courteous  and  polite. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  never  heard 
Thackeray's  name  in  connection  with 
the  house.  The  landlady  protested  that 
"  no  man  by  the  name  o*  Thack'ry  has 
had  rooms  here  since  I  rented  the  place  ; 
leastwise,  if  he  has  been  here  he  called 
hisself  by  sumpthink  else,  which  was  like 
o'nufF  the  case,  as  most  ev'ry  body  is 
crooked  now  days — but  surely  no  decent 
person  can  blame  me  for  that !  " 

I  assured  her  that  she  was  in  no  wise  to 
blame. 

From  this  house  in  Young  Street  the 
author  of  Vanity  Fair  moved  to  No. 
36  Onslow  Square,  where  he  wrote  The 
Virginians.  On  the  south  side  of  the 
square  there  is  a  row  of  three-storied 
brick  houses.  Thackeray  lived  in  one 
of  these  houses  for  nine  years.  They 
245 


Gbacfceras 


■were  the  years  when  honors  and  wealth 
were  being  heaped  upon  him  ;  and  he 
was  worldling  enough  to  let  his  wants 
keep  pace  with  his  ability  to  gratify 
them.  He  was  made  of  the  same  sort 
of  clay  as  other  men,  for  his  standard  of 
life  conformed  to  his  pocketbook  and  he 
always  felt  poor. 

From  this  fine  house  on  Onslow  Square 
he  moved  to  a  veritable  palace  which  he 
built  to  suit  his  own  taste,  at  No.  2  Pal- 
ace Green,  Kensington.  But  mansions  on 
earth  are  seldom  for  long — he  died  here  on 
Christmas  Eve,  1863.  And  Charles  Dick- 
ens, Mark  Lemon,  Millais,  Anthony  Trol- 
lope,  Robert  Browning,  George  Cruik- 
shank,  Tom  Taylor,  Louis  Blanc,  Charles 
Mathews,  and  Shirley  Brooks  were  among 
the  friends  who  carried  him  to  his  rest. 


246 


II. 


IT  is  a  great  mistake  to  take  one's  self 
too  seriously.  Complacency  is  the 
unpardonable  sin,  and  the  man  who 
says,  "  Now  I  'm  sure  of  it,"  has  at  that 
moment  lost  it. 

Villagers  who  have  lived  in  one  little 
place  until  they  think  themselves  great> 
having  lost  the  sense  of  proportion 
through  lack  of  comparison,  are  gener- 
ally "  in  dead  earnest." 

Surely  they  are  often  intellectually 
dead,  and  I  do  not  dispute  the  fact  that 
they  are  in  earnest.  All  those  excellent 
gentlemen  in  the  days  gone  by  who  could 
not  contemplate  a  celestial  bliss  that  did 
not  involve  the  damnation  of  those  who 
disagreed  with  them  were  in  dead  ear- 
nest. 

Cotton  Mather  once  saw  a  black  cat 
perched  on  the  shoulder  of  an  innocent, 
chattering  old  gran'ma.  The  next  day  a 
247 


Gbe  flaunts  of 


neighbor  had  a  convulsion  ;  and  Cotton 
Mather  went  forth  and  exorcised  Tabby 
with  a  hymn  book,  and  hanged  gran'ma 
by  the  neck,  high  on  Gallows  Hill,  until 
she  was  dead. 

Had  the  Reverend  Mather  possessed 
but  a  mere  modicum  of  humor  he  might 
have  exorcised  the  cat,  but  I  am  sure  he 
would  never  have  troubled  old  gran'ma. 
But  alas,  Cotton  Mather's  conversation 
was  limited  to  yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay  : 
generally  nay,  nay  ;  and  he  was  in  dead 
earnest. 

In  the  Boston  Public  Library  is  a  book 
written  in  1685  by  Cotton  Mather,  en- 
titled Wonders  of  the  Invisible  World. 
This  book  received  the  endorsement  of 
the  Governor  of  the  Province  and  also 
of  the  president  of  Harvard  College. 
The  author  cites  many  cases  of  persons 
who  were  bewitched  ;  and  also  makes  the 
interesting  statement  that  the  devil  knows 
Greek,  Latin,  and  Hebrew,  but  speaks 
English  with  an  accent.  These  facts  were 
long  used  at  Harvard  as  argument  in 
248 


Gbacfeerag 


favor  of  the  classics.  And  when  Greek 
was  at  last  made  optional  the  devil  was 
supposed  to  have  filed  a  protest  with  the 
Dean  of  the  Faculty. 

The  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell  who  razed 
New  Place,  and  cut  down  the  poet's  mul- 
berry tree  to  escape  the  importunities  of 
visitors,  was  in  dead  earnest.  Attila,  and 
Herod,  and  John  Calvin  were  in  dead 
earnest.  And  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  I/uther  had  lucid  intervals  when  he 
went  about  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  he 
surely  would  have  worked  grievous  wrong. 

Recent  discoveries  in  Egyptian  archae- 
ology show  that  in  his  lifetime  Moses  was 
more  esteemed  as  a  wit  than  a  law  maker. 
His  jokes  were  posted  upon  the  walls  and 
explained  to  the  populace,  who  it  seems 
were  a  bit  slow. 

Job  was  a  humorist  of  a  high  order, 
and  when  he  said  to  the  wise  men,  "No 
doubt  but  ye  are  the  people,  and  wisdom 
shall  die  with  you,"  he  struck  twelve. 
When  the  sons  of  Jacob  went  down  into 
Egypt  and  Joseph  put  up  the  price  of 
249 


Zbe  f)aunts  of 


corn,  took  their  money,  and  then  secretly 
replaced  the  coin  in  the  sacks,  he  showed 
his  artless  love  of  a  quiet  joke. 

Shakespeare's  fools  were  the  wisest  and 
kindliest  men  at  court.  When  the  mas- 
ter decked  a  character  in  cap  and  bells 
it  was  as  though  he  had  given  bonds  for 
the  man's  humanity.  Touchstone  fol- 
lowed his  master  into  exile  ;  and  when  all 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  King  Lear  the 
fool  bared  himself  to  the  storm  and  cov- 
ered the  shaking  old  man  with  his  own 
cloak.  And  if  Costard,  Trinculo,  Touch- 
stone, Jaques,  and  Mercutio  had  lived  in 
Salem  in  1692  there  would  not  only  hav<= 
been  a  flashing  of  merry  jests,  but  a 
flashing  of  rapiers  as  well,  and  every  gray 
hair  of  every  old  dame's  head  would  have 
been  safe  so  long  as  there  was  a  striped 
leg  on  which  to  stand. 

Lincoln,  liberator  of  men,  loved  the 
motley  ;  and  if  it  comes  to  an  issue  be- 
tween Chauncey  M.  Depew  and  John 
Sherman  we  must  make  shift  to  save  the 
state  by  making  the  joker  president.  We 
250 


GbacfeeraB 


do  not  want  for  chief  magistrate  one  who 
by  his  presence  in  a  room,  makes  the 
apartment  available  only  for  cold  storage. 
Such  men  be  dangerous.  For  the  individ- 
ual who  is  incapable  of  viewing  the  world 
from  a  jocular  basis  is  unsafe  and  can 
only  be  trusted  when  the  opposition  is 
strong  enough  to  laugh  him  into  line. 

In  the  realm  of  English  letters  Thack- 
eray is  prince  of  humorists.  He  could 
see  right  through  a  brick  wall,  and 
never  mistook  a  hawk  for  a  hernshaw. 
He  had  a  just  estimate  of  values,  and  the 
temperament  that  can  laugh  at  all  trivial 
misfits.  And  he  had  too  that  dread  ca- 
pacity for  pain  which  every  true  humorist 
possesses  :  for  the  true  essence  of  humor 
is  sensibility. 

In  all  literature  that  lives  there  is  min- 
gled like  pollen  an  indefinable  element 
of  the  author's  personality.  In  Thacke- 
ray's Lectures  on  English  Humorists 
this  subtle  quality  is  particularly  appar- 
ent. Elusive,  delicate,  alluring — it  is  the 
actinic  ray  that  imparts  vitality. 
251 


Gbe  tbaunts  of 


When  wit  plays  at  skittles  with  dul- 
ness,  dulness  gets  revenge  by  taking  wit 
at  his  sword.  Vast  numbers  of  people 
taking  Thackeray  at  his  word  consider 
him  a  bitter  pessimist. 

He  even  disconcerted  bright  little 
Charlotte  Bronte"  who  went  down  to  Lon- 
don to  see  him,  and  then  wrote  back  to 
Haworth  that  "the  great  man  talked 
steadily  with  never  a  smile.  I  could  not 
tell  when  to  laugh  and  when  to  cry  for  I 
did  not  know  what  was  fun  and  what 
fact." 

But  finally  the  author  of  Jane  Eyre 
found  the  combination,  and  she  saw 
that  beneath  the  brusque  exterior  of  that 
bulky  form  there  was  a  woman's  tender 
sympathy. 

Thackeray  has  told  us  what  he  thought 
of  the  author  of  Jane  Eyre,  and  the  au- 
thor of  Jane  Eyre  has  told  us  what  she 
thought  of  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair. 
One  was  big  and  whimsical,  the  other 
was  little  and  sincere,  but  both  were 
alike  in  this  :  their  hearts  were  wrung  at 
252 


Gbacfeerag 


the  sight  of  suffering  and  both  had  tears 
for  the  erring,  the  groping,  and  the  op- 
pressed. 

A  Frenchman  cannot  comprehend  a 
joke  that  is  not  accompanied  by  grimace 
and  gesticulation ;  and  so  M.  Taine 
chases  Thackeray  through  sixty  solid 
pages,  berating  him  for  what  he  is  pleased 
to  term  "  bottled  hate." 

Taine  is  a  cynic  who  charges  Thackeray 
with  cynicism,  all  in  the  choicest  of  bit- 
ing phrase.  It  is  a  beautiful  example  of 
sinners  calling  the  righteous  to  repent- 
ance— a  thing  that  is  often  done,  but  sel- 
dom with  artistic  finish. 

The  fun  is  too  deep  for  Monsieur,  or 
mayhap  the  brand  is  not  the  yellow  label 
to  which  his  palate  is  accustomed,  so  he 
spews  it  all.  Yet  Taine's  criticism  is 
charming  reading,  although  he  is  only 
hot  after  an  anise-seed  trail  of  his  own 
dragging.  But  the  chase  is  a  deal  more 
exciting  than  most  men  would  lead  were 
there  real  live  game  to  capture. 

If  pushed  I  might  suggest  several 
253 


Gbe  t>aunts  of 


points  in  this  man's  make-up  where  God 
could  have  bettered  His  work.  But  ac- 
cepting Thackeray  as  we  find  him,  we  see 
a  singer  whose  cage  fate  had  overhung 
with  black  until  he  had  caught  the  tune. 
The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse  shows  a  ten- 
der side  of  his  spirit  that  he  often  sought 
to  conceal.  His  heart  vibrated  to  all 
finer  thrills  of  mercy ;  and  his  love  for 
all  created  things  was  so  delicately  strung 
that  he  would,  in  childish  shame,  some- 
times issue  a  growl  to  drown  its  rising, 
tearful  tones. 

In  the  character  of  Becky  Sharp  he 
has  marshalled  some  of  his  own  weak 
points  and  then  lashed  them  with  scorn. 
He  looked  into  the  mirror  and  seeing  a 
potential  snob  he  straightway  inveighed 
against  snobbery.  The  punishment  does 
not  always  fit  the  crime — it  is  excess. 
But  I  still  contest  that  where  his  ridicule 
is  most  severe,  it  is  Thackeray's  own 
back  that  is  bared  to  the  knout. 

The  primal  recipe  for  roguery  in  art  is  : 
"Know  Thyself."  When  a  writer  por- 
254 


Gbacfeeras 


trays  a  villain  and  does  it  well, — make 
no  mistake — he  poses  for  the  character 
himself.  Said  gentle  Ralph  Waldo  Em- 
erson, "I  have  capacity  in  me  for  every 
crime." 

The  man  of  imagination  knows  those 
mystic  spores  of  possibility  that  lie  dor- 
mant, and  like  the  magicians  of  the  Bast 
who  grow  mango  trees  in  an  hour,  he 
develops  the  "  inward  potential  "  at  will. 
The  mere  artisan  in  letters  goes  forth 
and  finds  a  villain  and  then  describes 
him,  but  the  artist  knows  a  better  way  : 
"  I  am  that  man." 

One  of  the  very  sweetest,  gentlest  char- 
acters in  literature  is  Colonel  Newcome. 
The  stepfather  of  Thackeray,  Major  Car- 
michael  Smyth,  was  made  to  stand  for 
the  portrait  of  the  lovable  Colonel ;  and 
when  that  all  'round  athlete,  F.  Hop- 
kinson  Smith,  gave  us  that  other  lovable 
old  Colonel  he  paid  high  tribute  to  The 
Newcomes. 

Thackeray  was  a  poet,  and  as  such  was 
often  caught  in  the  toils  of  doubt — the 
255 


Gbe  fjaunts  of 


crux  of  the  inquiring  spirit.  He  aspired 
for  better  things  and  at  times  his  im- 
perfections stood  out  before  him  in  mon- 
strous shape,  and  he  sought  to  hiss  them 
down. 

In  the  heart  of  the  artist-poet  there  is 
an  Inmost-Self  that  sits  over  against  the 
acting,  breathing  man  and  passes  judg- 
ment on  his  every  deed.  To  satisfy  the 
world  is  little,  to  please  the  populace 
is  naught ;  fame  is  vapor  ;  gold  is  dross  ; 
and  every  love  that  has  not  the  sanction 
of  that  Inmost-Self  is  a  viper's  sting.  To 
satisfy  the  demands  of  the  God  within 
is  the  poet's  prayer.  What  doubts  beset, 
what  taunting  fears  surround,  what 
crouching  sorrows  lie  in  wait,  what  dead 
hopes  drag,  what  hot  desires  pursue  ;  and 
what  kindly  lights  do  beckon  on — ah  ! 
"  't  is  we  musicians  know." 

Thackeray  came  to  America  to  get  a 
pot  of  money,  and  was  in  a  fair  way 
of  securing  it,  when  he  chanced  to  pick 
up  a  paper  in  which  a  steamer  was  an- 
nounced to  sail  that  evening  for  England. 
256 


GbacfeeraB 


A  wave  of  homesickness  swept  over  the 
big  boy — he  could  not  stand  it.  He  hast- 
ily packed  up  his  effects  and  without  say- 
good  bye  to  any  one,  and  forgetting  all 
of  his  engagements,  he  hastened  to  the 
dock,  leaving  this  note  for  the  kindest  of 
kind  friends :  "  Good  bye  Fields,  good 
bye  Mrs.  Fields — God  bless  everybody, 
says  W.  M.  T." 


257 


'/ce^f 


DICKENS 


259 


.  .  .  I  hope  for  the  enlargement  of  my  mind, 
and  for  the  improvement  of  my  understanding. 
If  I  have  done  but  little  good,  I  trust  I  have  done 
less  harm,  and  that  none  of  my  adventures  will 
be  other  than  a  source  of  amusing  and  pleasant 
recollection.    God  bless  you  all. 

Pickwick. 


260 


DICKENS. 


THE  path  of  progress  in  certain  prob- 
lems seems  barred  as  by  a  flaming 
sword. 
More  than  a  thousand  years  before 
Christ  an  Arab  chief  asked,  "If  a  man 
die  shall  he  live  again  ?  "  Every  man  who 
ever  lived  has  asked  the  same  question, 
but  we  know  no  more  to-day  about  the 
subject  than  did  Job. 

There  are  one  hundred  and  five  boy 
babies  born  to  every  one  hundred  girls. 
The  law  holds  in  every  land  where  vital 
statistics  have  been  kept  ;  and  Sairey 
Gamp  knew  just  as  much  about  the  cause 
why  as  Brown-Sequard,  Pasteur,  Agnew, 
or  Austin  Flint. 

261 


Gbe  founts  of 


There  is  still  a  third  question  that  every 
parent,  since  Adam  and  Eve,  has  sought 
to  solve  :  "  How  can  I  educate  this  child 
so  that  he  will  attain  eminence  ?  "  And 
even  in  spite  of  shelves  that  groan  be- 
neath tomes  on  tomes,  and  advice  from 
a  million  preachers,  the  answer  is  :  No- 
body knows. 

"There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
rough  hew  them  how  we  will." 

Moses  was  sent  adrift,  but  the  tide 
carried  him  into  power.  The  brethren  of 
Joseph  "deposited  him  into  a  cavity," 
but  you  cannot  dispose  of  genius  that 
way !  Demosthenes  was  weighted  (or 
blessed)  with  every  disadvantage  ;  Shake- 
speare got  into  difficulty  with  a  woman 
eight  years  his  senior,  stole  deer,  ran  away, 
and — became  the  very  first  among  Eng- 
lish poets  ;  Erasmus  was  a  foundling. 

Once  there  was  a  woman  by  the  name 
of  Nancy  Hanks  ;  she  was  thin-breasted, 
gaunt,  yellow,  and  sad.  At  last,  living 
in  poverty,  overworked,  she  was  stricken 
by  death.  She  called  her  son — homely 
262 


SHcfcens 

as  herself — and  pointing  to  the  lad's 
sister  said,  "Be  good  to  her,  Abe,"  and 
died — died,  having  no  expectation  for  her 
boy  beyond  the  hope  that  he  might  pros- 
per in  worldly  affairs  so  as  to  care  for 
himself  and  sister.  The  boy  became  a 
man  who  wielded  wisely  a  power  mightier 
than  ever  given  to  any  other  American. 
Seven  college-bred  men  composed  his 
cabinet ;  and  Proctor  Knott  once  said  that 
"if  a  teeter  were  evenly  balanced,  and 
the  members  of  the  cabinet  were  all  placed 
on  one  end,  and  the  President  on  the 
other  he  would  send  the  seven  wise  men 
flying  into  space." 

On  the  other  hand,  Marcus  Aurelius 
wrote  his  Meditations  for  a  son  who  did 
not  read  them  and  whose  name  is  a  sym- 
bol for  profligacy ;  Charles  Kinsgley 
penned  Greek  Heroes  for  offspring  who 
have  never  shown  their  father's  heroism, 
and  Charles  Dickens  wrote  A  Child's 
History  of  England  for  his  children — 
none  of  whom  have  proven  their  pro- 
ficiency in  historiology. 
263 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


Charles  Dickens  himself  received  his 
education  at  the  University  of  Hard 
Knocks.  Very  early  in  life  he  was  cast 
upon  the  rocks  and  suckled  by  the  she- 
wolf.  Yet  he  became  the  most  popular 
author  the  world  has  ever  known,  and  up 
to  the  present  time  no  writer  of  books  has 
approached  him  in  point  of  number  of 
readers  and  financial  returns.  These  are 
facts — facts  so  hard  and  true  that  they 
would  be  the  delight  of  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

At  twelve  years  of  age  Charles  Dickens 
was  pasting  labels  on  blacking-boxes  ; 
his  father  was  in  prison.  At  sixteen  he 
was  spending  odd  hours  in  the  reading- 
room  of  the  British  Museum.  At  nineteen 
he  was  Parliamentary  reporter ;  at  twenty- 
one  a  writer  of  sketches  ;  at  twenty-three 
he  was  getting  a  salary  of  thirty-five  dol- 
lars a  week,  and  the  next  year  his  pay 
was  doubled.  When  twenty-five  he  wrote 
a  play  that  ran  for  seventy  nights  at  the 
Drury  Lane  Theatre.  About  the  same 
time  he  received  seven  hundred  dollars 
for  a  series  of  sketches  written  in  two 
264 


Bfckens 

weeks.  At  twenty-six,  publishers  were 
at  his  feet. 

When  Dickens  was  at  the  flood-tide  of 
prosperity,  Thackeray,  one  year  his  sen- 
ior, waited  on  his  doorstep  with  pictures 
to  illustrate  Pickwick. 

He  worked  steadily,  and  made  from 
eight  to  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a 
year.  His  fame  increased,  and  the  New 
York  Ledger  paid  him  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars for  one  story  which  he  wrote  in  a  fort- 
night. His  collected  works  fill  forty  vol- 
umes. There  are  more  of  Dickens'  books 
sold  every  year  now  than  in  any  year  in 
which  he  lived.  There  were  more  of 
Dickens'  books  sold  last  year  than  any 
previous  year. 

"  I  am  glad  that  the  public  buy  his 
books,"  said  Macready,  "  for  if  they  did 
not  he  would  take  to  the  stage  and  eclipse 
us  all." 

Not  So  Bad  as  We  Seem,  by  Bulwer- 

Lytton,  was  played  at  Devonshire  House 

in  the  presence  of  the  Queen,  Dickens 

taking  the  principal  part.     He  gave  the- 

265 


SHcfcens 

atrical  performances  in  London,  Liver- 
pool, and  Manchester,  for  the  benefit  of 
Leigh  Hunt,  Sheridan  Knowles,  and  vari- 
ous other  needy  authors  and  actors.  He 
wrote  a  dozen  plays  and  twice  as  many 
more  have  been  constructed  from  his 
plots. 

He  gave  public  readings  through  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland,  where  the 
people  fought  for  seats.  The  average 
receipts  for  these  entertainments  were 
eight  hundred  dollars  per  night. 

In  1865  he  made  a  six  months'  tour  of 
the  United  States  giving  a  series  of  read- 
ings. The  prices  of  admission  were  placed 
at  extravagant  figures,  but  the  box-office 
was  always  besieged  until  the  ticket-seller 
put  out  his  lights  and  hung  out  a  sign  : 
"  The  standing  room  is  all  taken." 

The  gross  receipts  of  these  readings 
were  $229,000 ;  the  expenses  $39,000  ;  net 
profit  $190,000. 

Charles  Dickens  died  of  brain  rupture 
in  1870,  aged  fifty-eight.     His  dust  rests 
in  Westminster  Abbey. 
266 


II. 


MR.  JAMES  T.  FIELDS,  who  was 
affectionately  referred  to  by  Mr. 
Charles  Dickens  as  "  Massachu- 
setts Jemmy,"  once  said  :  "To  know  the 
London  of  Dickens  is  a  liberal  education." 
And  I  am  aware  of  no  better  way  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  greatest  city  in 
the  world  than  to  follow  the  winding  foot- 
steps of  the  author  of  David  Copperfield. 

Beginning  his  London  life  when  ten 
years  of  age,  he  shifted  from  one  lodging 
to  another,  zigzag,  tacking  back  and  forth 
from  place  to  place,  but  all  the  time  mak- 
ing head,  and  finally  dwelling  in  palaces 
of  which  nobility  might  be  proud.  It 
took  him  forty-eight  years  to  travel  from 
the  squalor  of  Camden  Town  to  Poets' 
Corner  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

He  lodged  first  in  Bayham  Street.  "  A 
267 


Gbe  t)aunts  of 


washerwoman  lived  next  door,  and  a  Bow 
Street  officer  over  the  way."  It  was  a 
shabby  district,  chosen  by  the  elder 
Dickens  because  the  rent  was  low.  As 
he  neglected  to  pay  the  rent,  one  won- 
ders why  he  did  not  take  quarters  in 
Piccadilly. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  a  sign  reading, 
"  Washin  dun  Heer,"  but  I  found  a  Bow 
Street  orf'cer  who  told  me  that  Bayham 
Street  had  long  since  disappeared. 

Yet  there  is  always  a  recompense  in 
prowling  about  London,  because  if  you 
do  not  find  the  thing  you  are  looking  for, 
you  find  something  else  equally  interest- 
ing. My  Bow  Street  friend  proved  to  be 
a  regular  magazine  of  rare  and  useful  in- 
formation ;  historical,  archaeological  and 
biographical. 

A  Lunnun  Bobby  has  his  clothes  cut 
after  a  pattern  a  hundred  years  old,  and 
he  always  carries  his  gloves  in  his  hand — 
never  wearing  them — because  this  was  a 
a  habit  of  William  the  Conqueror.  But 
never  mind,  he  is  intelligent,  courteous, 
268 


SUcftens 

and  obliging,  and  I  am  perfectly  willing 
that  he  should  wear  skirts  like  a  ballet 
dancer  and  a  helmet  too  small  if  it  is  his 
humor. 

My  perliceman  knew  an  older  orfcer 
who  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Dickens. 
Mr.  Dickens  'ad  a  full  perliceman's  suit 
'imself,  issued  to  'im  on  an  order  from 
Scotland  Yard,  and  he  used  to  do  patrol 
duty  at  night  carrying  'is  bloomin'  gloves 
in  'is  'and  and  'is  chinstrapin  place.  This 
was  told  me  by  my  new-found  friend,  who 
volunteered  to  show  me  the  way  to  North 
Gower  Street. 

It's  only  Gower  Street  now  and  the 
houses  have  been  renumbered,  so  Number 
4  is  a  matter  of  conjecture  ;  but  my  guide 
showed  me  a  door  where  were  the  marks  of 
a  full  grown  plate  that  evidently  had  long 
since  disappeared.  Some  days  afterward 
I  found  this  identical  brass  plate  at  an 
old  bookshop  in  Cheapside.  The  plate 
read  :  Mrs.  Dickens'  Establishment.  The 
man  who  kept  the  place  advertised  him- 
self asa"  Bibliopole. ' '  He  offered  to  sell 
269 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


me  the  plate  for  one  pun  ten,  but  I  did 
not  purchase  for  I  knew  where  I  could 
get  its  mate  with  a  deal  more  verdigris, 
all  for  six  and  eight. 

Dickens  has  recorded  that  he  cannot 
recollect  of  any  pupils  coming  to  the 
Establishment.  But  he  remembers  when 
his  father  was  taken,  like  Mr.  Dorrit,  to 
the  Debtors'  Prison.  He  was  lodged  in 
the  top  story  but  one,  in  the  very  same 
room  where  his  son  afterwards  put  the 
Dorrits.  It  's  a  queer  thing  to  know 
that  a  book-writer  can  imprison  folks 
without  a  warrant  and  even  kill  them 
and  yet  go  unpunished — which  thought 
was  suggested  to  me  by  my  philosophic 
guide. 

From  this  house  in  Gower  Street 
Charles  used  to  go  daily  to  the  Marshal- 
sea  to  visit  Micawber,  who  not  so  many 
years  later  was  to  act  as  the  proud  aman- 
uensis of  his  son. 

The  next  morning  after  I  first  met 
Bobby  he  was  off  duty.  I  met  him  by 
appointment  at  the  Three  Jolly  Beg- 
270 


Dicftens 

gars  (a  place  pernicious  snug).  He 
was  dressed  in  a  fashionable  light-colored 
suit,  the  coat  a  trifle  short,  and  a  high 
silk  hat.  His  large  red  neck-scarf — set 
off  by  his  bright  brick-dust  complexion — 
caused  me  to  mistake  him  at  first  for  a 
friend  of  mine  who  drives  a  Holborn  bus. 

Mr.  'awkins  (for  it  was  he)  greeted  me 
cordially,  pulled  gently  at  his  neck 
whiskers,  and  when  he  addressed  me 
as  Me  I^ud,  the  barmaid  served  us  with 
much  alacrity  and  things. 

We  went  first  to  the  church  of  St. 
George ;  then  we  found  Angel  Court  lead- 
ing to  Berbondsey,  also  Marshalsea  Place. 
Here  is  the  site  of  the  prison,  where  the 
crowded  ghosts  of  misery  still  hover ;  but 
small  trace  could  we  find  of  the  prison 
itself,  neither  did  we  see  the  ghosts.  We, 
however,  saw  a  very  pretty  barmaid  at 
the  public  in  Angel  Court.  I  think  she 
is  still  prettier  than  the  one  to  whom 
Bobby  introduced  me  at  the  Sign  of 
the  Meat  Axe,  which  is  saying  a  good 
deal.  Angel  Court  is  rightly  named. 
271 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


The  blacking  warehouse  at  Old  Hun- 
gerford  Stairs,  Strand,  in  which  Charles 
Dickens  was  shown  by  Bob  Fagin  how 
to  tie  up  the  pots  of  paste,  has  rotted 
down  and  been  carted  away.  The  coal 
barges  in  the  muddy  river  are  still  there, 
just  as  they  were  when  Charles,  Poll 
Green,  and  Bob  Fagin  played  on  them 
during  the  dinner  hour.  I  saw  Bob  and 
several  other  boys,  grimy  with  blacking, 
chasing  each  other  across  the  flat  boats 
but  Dickens  was  not  there. 

Down  the  river  a  ways  there  is  a 
crazy  old  warehouse  with  a  rotten  wharf 
of  its  own,  abutting  on  the  water  when 
the  tide  is  in,  and  on  the  mud  when  the 
tide  is  out ;  the  whole  place  literally 
overrun  with  rats  that  scuffle  and  squeal 
on  the  mouldy  stairs.  I  asked  Bobby  if 
it  could  not  be  that  this  was  the  blacking 
factory,  but  he  said,  no,  for  this  one 
alius  wuz. 

Dickens  found  lodgings  in  Lant  Street 
while  his  father  was  awaiting  in  the 
Marshalsea  for  something  to  turn  up. 
272 


SHckens 

Bob  Sawyer  afterward  had  the  same 
quarters.  When  Sawyer  invited  Mr. 
Pickwick  "  and  the  other  chaps  "  to  dine 
with  him,  he  failed  to  give  his  number, 
so  we  cannot  locate  the  house.  But  I 
found  the  street  and  saw  a  big  wooden 
Pickwick  on  wheels  standing  as  a  sign 
for  a  tobacco  shop.  The  old  gentleman 
who  runs  the  place,  and  runs  the  sign  in 
every  night,  assured  me  that  Bob  Sawyer's 
room  was  the  first  floor  back.  I  looked 
in  at  it  but  seeing  no  one  there  whom  I 
knew  I  bought  tuppence  worth  of  pigtail 
in  lieu  of  fee,  and  came  away. 

If  a  man  wished  to  abstract  himself 
from  the  world,  to  remove  himself  from 
temptation,  to  place  himself  beyond  the 
possibility  of  desire  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  he  should  live  in  I^ant  Street, 
said  a  great  novelist.  David  Copperfield 
lodged  here  when  he  ordered  that  glass 
of  Genuine  Stunning  Ale  at  the  Red  Iyion 
and  excited  the  sympathy  of  the  land- 
lord, winning  a  motherly  kiss  from  his 
wife. 

273 


Cbe  flaunts  of 


The  Red  Lion  still  crouches  (under  an- 
other name)  at  the  corner  of  Derby  and 
Parliament  Streets,  Westminster.  I  day- 
dreamed there  for  an  hour  one  morning, 
pretending  the  while  to  read  a  newspaper. 
I  cannot,  however,  recommed  their  ale  as 
particularly  stunning. 

As  there  are  authors  of  one  book,  so 
are  there  readers  of  one  author — more 
than  we  wist.  Children  want  the  same 
bear  story  told  over  and  over,  preferring 
it  to  a  new  one  ;  so  "  grown-ups  "  often 
prefer  the  dog-eared  book  to  uncut  leaves. 

Mr.  Hawkins  preferred  the  dog-eared, 
and  at  the  station  house,  where  many 
times  he  had  long  hours  to  wait  in  antic- 
ipation of  a  hurry-up  call,  he  whiled 
away  the  time  by  browsing  in  his  Dickens. 
He  knew  no  other  author,  neither  did  he 
wish  to.  His  epidermis  was  soaked  with 
Dickensology,  and  when  inspired  by  gin 
and  bitters  he  emitted  information  at 
every  pore.  To  him  all  these  bodiless 
beings  of  Dickens'  brain  were  living 
creatures.  An  anachronism  was  nothing 
274 


2>icfcens 

to  Hawkins.  Charley  Bates  was  still  at 
large,  Quilph  was  just  around  the  corner 
and  Gaffer  Hexam's  boat  was  moored  in 
the  muddy  river  below. 

Dickens  used  to  haunt  the  publics, 
those  curious  resting  places  where  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  thirsty  philoso- 
phers meet  to  discuss  all  sorts  of  themes. 
My  guide  took  me  to  many  of  these  inns 
which  the  great  novelist  frequented,  and 
we  always  had  one  legend  with  every 
drink.  After  we  had  called  at  three  or 
four  different  snuggeries  Hawkins  would 
begin  to  shake  out  the  facts. 

Now  it  is  not  generally  known  that  the 
so-called  stories  of  Dickens  are  simply 
records  of  historic  events,  like  What-do- 
you-call-um's  plays  !  F'r  instance,  Dom- 
bey  and  Son  was  a  well-known  firm,  who 
carried  over  into  a  joint  stock  company 
only  a  few  years  ago.  The  concern  is 
now  known  as  the  Dombey  Trading  Co.  ; 
they  occupy  the  same  quarters  that  were 
used  by  their  illustrious  predecessors. 

I  signified  a  desire  to  see  the  counting- 
275 


XLbc  fjaunts  of 


house  so  minutely  described  by  Dickens, 
and  Mr.  Hawkins  agreed  to  pilot  me 
thither  on  our  way  to  Tavistock  Square. 
We  twisted  down  to  the  first  turning,  then 
up  three,  then  straight  ahead  to  the  first 
right-hand  turn,  where  we  cut  to  the  left 
until  we  came  to  a  stuffed  dog,  which  is 
the  sign  of  a  glover.  Just  beyond  this 
my  guide  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve  ;  we 
halted,  and  he  silently  and  solemnly 
pointed  across  the  street.  Sure  enough ! 
There  it  was,  the  warehouse  with  a  great 
stretch  of  dirty  windows  in  front,  through 
which  we  could  see  dozens  of  clerks  bend- 
ing over  ledgers,  just  as  though  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  were  momentarily  expected.  Over 
the  door  was  a  gilt  sign  :  The  Bombay 
Trading  Co. 

Bobby  explained  that  it  was  all  the 
same. 

I  did  not  care  to  go  in,  but  at  my  re- 
quest Hawkins  entered  and  asked  for 
Mister  Carker,  the  Junior ;  but  no  one 
knew  him. 

Then  we  dropped  in  at  The  Silver 
276 


Dfcfteng 

Shark,  a  little  inn  about  the  size  of  a 
large  dust-bin  of  two  compartments  and 
a  sifter.  Here  we  rested  a  bit,  as  we 
had  walked  a  long  way. 

The  barmaid  who  waited  upon  us  was 
in  curl  papers,  but  she  was  even  then  as 
pretty  if  not  prettier  than  the  barmaid  at 
the  public  in  Angel  Court,  and  that  is 
saying  a  good  deal.  She  was  about  as 
tall  as  Trilby  or  Ellen  Terry,  which  is  a 
very  nice  height,  I  think. 

As  we  rested,  Mr.  Hawkins  told  the 
barmaid  and  me  how  Rogue  Riderhood 
came  to  this  very  public,  through  that 
same  doorway,  just  after  he  had  his  Al- 
fred David  took  down  by  the  Governors 
Both.  He  was  a  slouching  dog,  was 
the  Rogue.  He  wore  an  old  sodden  fur 
cap,  winter  and  summer,  formless  and 
mangy  ;  it  looked  like  a  drowned  cat. 
His  hands  were  always  in  his  pockets  up 
to  his  elbows,  when  they  were  not  reach- 
ing for  something,  and  when  he  was  out 
after  game  his  walk  was  a  half  shuffle 
and  run. 

277 


XLbc  Ibaunte  of 


Hawkins  saw  him  starting  off  this  way- 
one  night  and  followed  him — knowing 
there  was  mischief  on  hand — followed 
him  for  two  hours  through  the  fog  and 
rain.  It  was  midnight  and  the  last 
stroke  of  the  bells  that  tolled  the  hour 
had  ceased,  and  their  echo  was  dying 
away,  when  all  at  once 

But  the  story  is  too  long  to  relate  here. 
It  is  so  long  that  when  Mr.  Hawkins  had 
finished  it  was  too  late  to  reach  Tavistock 
Square  before  dark.  Mr.  Hawkins  ex- 
plained that  as  bats  and  owls  and  rats 
come  out  only  when  the  sun  has  dis- 
appeared, so  there  are  other  things  that 
can  be  seen  best  by  night.  And  as  he 
did  not  go  on  until  the  next  day  at  one, 
he  proposed  that  we  should  go  down  to 
The  Cheshire  Cheese  and  get  a  bite  of 
summat  and  then  sally  forth. 

So  we  hailed  a  bus  and  climbed  to  the 
top. 

"She  rolls  like  a  scow  in  the  wake 
of  a  liner,"  said  Bobby,  as  we  tumbled 
into  seats.  When  the  bus  man  came  up 
278 


2>icftens 

the  little  winding  ladder  and  jingled  his 
punch,  Hawkins  paid  our  fares  with  a 
heavy  wink,  and  the  guard  said,  "Thank 
you,  sir,"  and  passed  on. 

We  got  off  at  "  The  Cheese  "  and  set- 
tied  ourselves  comfortably  in  a  corner. 

The  same  seats  are  there,  running  along 
the  wall,  where  Johnson,  "  Goldy,"  and 
Boswell  so  often  sat  and  waked  the  echoes 
with  their  laughter.  We  had  chops  and 
tomato  sauce  in  recollection  of  Jingle  and 
Trotter.  The  chops  were  of  the  delicious 
kind  unknown  outside  of  England.  I 
supplied  the  legend  this  time,  for  my 
messmate  had  never  heard  of  Boswell. 

Hawkins  introduced  me  to  "the  cove 
in  white  apron  "  who  waited  upon  us,  and 
then  explained  that  I  was  the  man  who 
wrote  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  the  elderly 
woman  who  presided  behind  the  nickle- 
plated  American  cash  register.  The  only 
thing  that  rang  false  about  the  place  was 
that  register,  perked  up  there  spick  span 
new.  Hawkins  insisted  that  it  was  a 
279 


Gbe  daunts  of 


typewriter,  and  as  we  passed  out  he  took 
a  handful  of  matches  (thinking  them 
toothpicks)  and  asked  the  cashier  to  play 
a  tune  on  the  thingumabob,  but  she 
declined. 

We  made  our  way  to  London  Bridge 
as  the  night  was  settling  down.  No 
stars  came  out,  but  nickering,  flutter- 
ing gaslights  appeared,  and  around  each 
post  was  a  great,  gray,  fluffy  aureole  of 
mist.  Just  at  the  entrance  to  the  bridge 
we  saw  Nancy  dogged  by  Noah  Clay- 
pole.  They  turned  down  towards  Bil- 
lingsgate Fish  Market,  and  as  the  fog 
swallowed  them,  Hawkins  answered  my 
question  as  to  the  language  used  at  Bil- 
lingsgate. 

"It's  not  so  bloomin'  bad,  you  know ; 
why,  I  '11  take  you  to  a  market  in  Isling- 
ton where  they  talk  twice  as  vile." 

He  started  to  go  into  technicalities, 
but  I  excused  him. 

Then  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  and 
spat  down  at  a  row-boat  that  was  passing 
below.  As  the  boat  moved  out  into  the 
280 


2>icftens 

glimmering  light  we  made  out  Lizzie 
Hexam  at  the  oars,  while  Gaffer  sat  in 
the  stern  on  the  lookout. 

The  Marchioness  went  by  as  we  stood 
there,  a  bit  of  tattered  shawl  over  her 
frowsy  head,  one  stocking  down  around 
her  shoetop.  She  had  a  penny  loaf 
under  her  arm,  and  was  breaking  off  bits, 
eating  as  she  went. 

Soon  came  Snagsby,  then  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummels,  Mr.  Sleary,  the  horseback 
rider,  followed  by  Chops  the  dwarf,  and 
Pickleson,  the  giant.  Hawkins  said  there 
were  two  Picklesons,  but  I  only  saw  one. 
Just  below  was  the  Stone  pier  and  there 
stood  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  I  heard  her  ask  : 

"  And  which  of  all  them  smoking  mon- 
sters is  the  Anxworks  boat,  I  wonder? 
Goodness  me ! " 

"Which  boat  do  you  want?"  asked 
Ruth. 

"The  Anxworks  package — I  will  not 
deceive  you,  Sweet,  why  should  I?  " 

"  Why,  that  is  the  Antwerp  packet,  in 
the  middle,"  said  Ruth 
281 


Gbe  f>aunts  of 


"  And  I  wish  it  was  in  Jonidge's  belly, 
I  do,"  cried  Mrs.  Gamp. 

We  came  down  from  the  bridge,  moved 
over  toward  Billingsgate,  past  the  Custom 
House,  where  curious  old  sea-captains 
wait  for  ships  that  never  come.  Captain 
Cuttle  lifted  his  hook  to  the  brim  of  his 
glazed  hat  as  we  passed.  We  returned 
the  salute  and  moved  on  toward  the 
Tower. 

"It's  a  rum  place,  let's  not  stop," 
said  Hawkins.  Thoughts  of  the  ghosts 
of  Raleigh,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  and 
Lady  Jane  Grey  seemed  to  steady  his  gait 
and  hasten  his  footsteps. 

In  a  few  moments  we  saw  just  ahead 
of  us  David  Copperfield  and  Mr.  Peggotty 
following  a  woman  whom  we  could  make 
out  walking  excitedly  a  block  ahead.  It 
was  Martha  intent  on  suicide. 

"  We  '11  get  to  the  dock  first  and  'ead 
'er  orf,"  said  'awkins.  We  ran  down  a  side 
street.  But  a  bright  light  in  a  little  brick 
cottage  caught  our  attention — men  can't 
run  arm  in  arm  anyway.  We  forgot  our 
282 


jBMcfcens 

errand  of  mercy  and  stood  still  "with  open 
mouths  looking  in  at  the  window  at  little 
Jenny  Wren  hard  at  work  dressing  her 
dolls  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  stab 
the  air  with  her  needle.  Bradley  Head- 
stone and  Charlie  and  Iyizzie  Hexam 
came  in,  and  we  then  passed  on,  not 
wishing  to  attract  attention. 

There  was  an  old  smoke-stained  tree 
on  the  corner  which  I  felt  sorry  for,  as  I 
do  for  every  city  tree.  Just  beyond  was 
a  blacksmith's  forge  and  a  timber  yard 
behind,  where  a  dealer  in  old  iron  had  a 
shop,  in  front  of  which  was  a  rusty  boiler 
and  a  gigantic  fly-wheel  half  buried  in 
the  sand. 

There  were  no  crowds  to  be  seen  now, 
but  we  walked  on  and  on — generally  in 
the  middle  of  the  narrow  streets,  turning 
up  or  down  or  across,  through  arches 
where  tramps  slept,  by  doorways  where 
children  crouched ;  passing  drunken  men, 
and  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads. 

Now  and  again  the  screech  of  a  fiddle 
could  be  heard  or  the  lazy  music  of  an 
283 


Gbe  founts  of 


accordeon,  coming  from  some  "Sailors' 
Home."  Steps  of  dancing  with  rattle 
of  iron-shod  boot  heels  clicking  over 
sanded  floors,  the  hoarse  shout  of  the 
"caller-ofF,"  and  now  and  again  angry 
tones  with  cracked  feminine  falsettos 
broke  on  the  air;  and  all  the  time  the 
soft  rain  fell  and  the  steam  seemed  to 
rise  from  the  sewage-laden  streets. 

We  were  in  Stepney,  that  curious  par- 
ish so  minutely  described  by  Walter 
Besant  in  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of 
Men — the  parish  where  all  children  born 
at  sea  were  considered  to  belong.  We 
saw  Brig  Place  where  Walter  Gay  visited 
Captain  Cuttle.  Then  we  went  with  Pip 
in  search  of  Mrs.  Wimple's  house,  at 
Mill  Pond  Bank,  Chink's  Basin,  Old 
Green  Copper  Rope  Walk ;  where  lived 
old  Bill  Barley  and  his  daughter  Clara 
and  where  Magwitch  was  hidden.  It  was 
the  dingiest  collection  of  shabby  build- 
ings ever  squeezed  together  in  a  dark 
corner  as  a  club  for  tomcats. 

Then,  standing  out  in  the  gloom,  we 
284 


Dickens 

saw  Limehouse  Church,  where  John 
Rokesmith  prowled  about  on  a  'tective 
scent ;  and  where  John  Harmon  waited 
for  the  thirdmate  Radfoot,  intending  to 
murder  him.  Next  we  reached  Iyimehouse 
Hole  where  Rogue  Riderhood  took  the 
plunge  down  the  steps  of  Leaving  Shop. 

Hawkins  thought  he  saw  the  Artful 
Dodger  ahead  of  us  on  the  dock.  He 
went  over  and  looked  up  and  down  and 
under  an  old  upturned  row-boat,  then 
peered  over  the  dock  and  swore  a  harm- 
less oath  that  if  we  could  catch  him  we 
would  run  him  in  without  a  warrant. 
Yes,  we  'd  clap  the  nippers  on  'im  and 
march  him  orf. 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  I  said.  "  I 
like  the  fellow  too  well."  Fortunately 
Hawkins  failed  to  find  him. 

Here  it  was  that  the  Uncommercial 
Traveller  did  patrol  duty  on  many  sleep- 
less nights.  Here  it  was  that  Esther 
Summerson  and  Mr.  Bucket  came.  And 
by  the  light  of  a  match  held  under  my 
hat  we  read  a  handbill  on  the  brick  wall : 
285 


XLbc  f)aunts  of 


"Found  drowned."  The  heading  stood 
out  in  big  fat  letters  but  the  print  below 
was  too  damp  to  read,  yet  there  is  no 
doubt  it  is  the  same  bill  that  Gaffer  Hex- 
am,  Eugene  Wrayburn,  and  Mortimer 
Lightwood  read,  for  Mr.  Hawkins  said  so. 

As  we  stood  there  we  heard  the  gentle 
gurgle  of  the  tide  running  under  the  pier, 
then  a  dip  of  oars  coming  from  out  the 
murky  darkness  of  the  muddy  river  :  a 
challenge  from  the  shore  with  orders  to 
row  in,  a  hoarse,  defiant  answer  and  a 
watchman's  rattle. 

A  policeman  passed  us  running  and 
called  back,  "  I  say,  Hawkins,  is  that 
you  ?  Jack  the  Ripper  is  at  it  in  White- 
chapel  again — The  reserves  have  been 
ordered  out!" 

Hawkins  stopped  and  seemed  to  pull 
himself  together — his  height  increased 
three  inches.  A  moment  before  I 
thought  he  was  a  candidate  for  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  cerebrum,  but  now 
his  sturdy  frame  was  all  a  tremble  with 
life. 

286 


Dickens 

"  Another  murder  !  I  knew  it.  Bill 
Sikes  has  killed  Nancy  at  last.  There 's 
fifty  pun  for  the  man  who  puts  the  irons 
on  'im — I  must  make  for  the  nearest 
stishun." 

He  gave  my  hand  a  twist,  shot  down  a 
narrow  courtway — and  I  was  left  to  fight 
the  fog,  and  mayhap  Jack  the  Ripper 
and  all  the  wild  phantoms  of  Dickens' 
brain,  alone. 


287 


in. 

A  CERTAIN  great  general  once  said 
that  the  only  good  Indian  is  a 
dead  Indian.  Just  why  the 
maxim  should  be  limited  to  aborigines  I 
know  not,  for  when  one  reads  obituaries 
he  is  discouraged  at  the  thought  of  com- 
peting in  virtue  with  those  who  have 
gone  Hence. 

Let  us  extend  the  remark — plagiarize  a 
bit — and  say  that  the  only  perfect  men 
are  those  whom  we  find  in  books.  The 
receipt  for  making  them  is  simple  yet 
well  worth  pasting  in  your  scrap-book. 
Take  the  virtues  of  all  the  best  men  you 
ever  knew  or  heard  of,  leave  out  the 
faults,  then  mix. 

In  the  hands  of  "the  lady  novelist" 
this  composition,  well  molded,  makes  a 
scarecrow  in  the  hair  of  which  the  birds 
288 


Bicfcens 

of  the  air  come  and  build  their  nests. 
But  manipulated  by  an  expert  a  figure 
may  appear  that  starts  and  moves  and 
seems  to  feel  the  thrill  of  life.  It  may 
even  take  its  place  on  a  pedestal  and  be 
exhibited  with  other  waxworks  and  thus 
become  confounded  with  the  historic. 
And  though  these  things  make  the  un- 
skilful laugh,  yet  the  judicious  say, 
"Dickens  made  it,  therefore  let  it  pass 
for  a  man." 

Dear  old  M.  Taine,  ever  glad  to  score 
a  point  against  the  British,  and  willing  to 
take  Dickens  at  his  word,  says,  "We  have 
no  such  men  in  France  as  Scrooge  and 
Squeers !" 

But  God  bless  you,  M.  Taine,  England 
has  no  such  men  either. 

The  novelist  takes  the  men  and  women 
he  has  known  and  from  life  plus  imagi- 
nation he  creates.  If  he  sticks  too  close 
to  nature  he  describes,  not  depicts  :  this 
is  "veritism."  If  imagination's  wing  is 
too  strong,  it  lifts  the  luckless  writer  off 
from  earth  and  carries  him  to  an  unknown 
289 


Zbe  f>aunt0  of 


land.  You  may  then  fall  down  and  wor- 
ship his  characters  and  there  is  no  viola- 
tion of  the  first  commandment. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  that  has  not 
been  seen ;  but  imagination  can  assort, 
omit,  sift,  select,  construct.  Given  a 
horse,  an  eagle,  an  elephant,  and  the 
"creative  artist"  can  make  an  animal 
that  is  neither  a  horse,  an  eagle,  nor  an 
elephant  yet  resembles  each.  This  ani- 
mal may  have  eight  legs  (or  forty)  with 
hoofs,  claws,  and  toes  alternating ;  a  beak, 
a  trunk,  a  mane,  and  the  whole  can  be 
feathered  and  given  the  power  of  rapid 
flight  and  also  the  ability  to  run  like  the 
east  wind.  It  can  neigh,  roar,  or  scream  by 
turn,  or  can  do  all  in  concert  with  a  vibra- 
tory force  multiplied  by  one  thousand. 

The  novelist  must  have  lived  and  the 
novelist  must  have  imagination.  But 
this  is  not  enough.  He  most  have  power 
to  analyze  and  separate,  and  then  he 
should  have  the  good  taste  to  select  and 
group,  forming  his  parts  into  an  harmo- 
nious whole. 

290 


Dickens 

Yet  lie  must  build  large.  Life  size  will 
not  do  :  the  statue  must  be  heroic  and 
the  artist's  genius  must  breathe  into  its 
nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 

The  men  who  live  in  history  are  those 
whose  lives  have  been  skilfully  written. 
"  Plutarch  is  the  most  charming  writer  of 
fiction  the  world  has  ever  known,"  said 
Emerson. 

Dickens'  characters  are  personifications 
of  traits,  not  men  and  women.  Yet  they 
are  a  deal  funnier — they  are  as  funny  as 
a  box  of  monkeys,  as  entertaining  as  a 
Punch  and  Judy  show,  as  interesting  as  a 
"  fifteen  puzzle,"  and  sometimes  as  pretty 
as  chromos.  Quilp  munching  the  eggs, 
shells  and  all,  to  scare  his  wife,  makes  one 
shiver  as  though  a  Jack-in-the-box  had 
been  popped  out  at  him.  Mr.  Mould  the 
undertaker  and  Jaggers  the  lawyer  are  as 
amusing  as  Humpty  Dumpty  and  Panta- 
loon :  I  am  sure  that  no  live  lawyer  ever 
gave  me  half  the  enjoyment  that  Jaggers 
has,  and  Dr.  Slammers'  talk  is  better  med- 
icine than  the  pills  of  any  living  M.D. 
291 


XTbe  Ibaunts  of 


Because  the  burnt-cork  minstrel  pleases 
me  more  than  a  real  "nigger"  is  no  rea- 
son why  I  should  find  fault ! 

Dickens  takes  the  horse,  the  eagle,  and 
the  elephant  and  makes  an  animal  of  his 
own.  He  rubs  up  the  feathers,  places  the 
tail  at  a  fierce  angle,  makes  the  glass  eyes 
glare,  and  you  are  ready  to  swear  that  the 
thing  is  alive. 

By  rummaging  over  the  commercial 
world  you  can  collect  the  harshness, 
greed,  avarice,  selfishness,  and  vanity 
from  a  thousand  men.  With  these  sins 
you  can,  if  you  are  very  skilful,  construct  a 
Ralph  Nickleby,  a  Scrooge,  a  Jonas  Chuz- 
zlewit,  an  Alderman  Cute,  a  Mr.  Murd- 
stone,  a  Bounderby,  or  Gradgrind  at  will. 
A  little  more  pride,  a  trifle  less  hypocrisy, 
a  molecule  extra  of  untruth,  and  flavor 
with  this  fault  or  that  and  your  man  is 
ready  to  place  up  against  the  fence  to  dry. 

Then  you  can  make  a  collection  of  all 

the  ridiculous  traits :    the  whims,   silly 

pride,  foibles,  hopes  founded  on  nothing 

and  dreams  touched  with  moonshine,  and 

292 


Dfcftens 

you  make  a  Micawber.  Put  in  a  dash  of 
assurance  and  a  good  thimbleful  of  hy- 
pocrisy and  Pecksniff  is  the  product. 
Leave  out  the  assurance,  replacing  it  with 
cowardice,  and  the  result  is  Dr.  Chillip  or 
Uriah  Heap.  Muddle  the  whole  with 
stupidity  and  Bumble  comes  forth. 

Then  for  the  good  people,  collect  the 
virtues  and  season  to  suit  the  taste  and 
we  have  the  Cheeryble  Brothers,  Paul 
Dombey,  or  Little  Nell.  They  have  no  de- 
velopment, therefore  no  history — the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  you  meet  them 
vary,  that 's  all.  They  are  people  the 
like  of  whom  are  never  seen  on  land 
or  sea. 

Little  Nell  is  good  all  day  long,  while 
live  children  are  good  for  only  five  min- 
utes at  a  time.  The  recurrence  with 
which  these  five-minute  periods  return 
determines  whether  the  child  is  "good" 
or  "bad."  In  the  intervals  the  restless 
little  feet  stray  into  flower  beds  ;  stand  on 
chairs  so  that  grimy  dimpled  hands  may 
reach  forbidden  jam ;  run  and  romp  in 
293 


Gbe  taunts  of 


pure  joyous  innocence,  or  kick  spitefully 
at  authority.  Then  the  little  fellow  may 
go  to  sleep,  smile  in  his  dreams  so  that 
mamma  says  angels  are  talking  to  him — 
(nurse  says,  wind  on  the  stomach)  ;  when 
he  awakens  the  five-minute  good  spell  re- 
turns. 

Men  are  only  grown  up-children .  They 
are  cheerful  after  breakfast,  cross  at  night. 
Houses,  lands,  barns,  railroads,  churches, 
books,  race-tracks  are  the  playthings  with 
which  they  amuse  themselves  until  they 
grow  tired  and  Death,  the  kind  old  nurse, 
puts  them  to  sleep. 

So  a  man  on  earth  is  good  or  bad  as 
mood  moves  him ;  in  color  his  acts  are 
seldom  pure  white,  neither  are  they  wholly 
black,  but  generally  of  a  steel  grey.  Ca- 
price, temper,  accident,  all  act  upon  him. 
The  north  wind  of  hate,  the  simoon  of 
jealousy,  the  cyclone  of  passion  beat  and 
buffet  him.  Pilots  strong  and  pilots 
cowardly  stand  at  the  helm  by  turn.  But 
sometimes  the  south  wind  softly  blows, 
the  sun  comes  out  by  day,  the  stars  at 
294 


Dfcftens 

night :  friendship  holds  the  rudder  firm 
and  love  makes  all  secure. 

Such  is  the  life  of  man — a  voyage  on 
life's  unresting  sea ;  but  Dickens  knows 
it  not.  Esther  is  always  good,  Fagin  is 
always  bad,  Bumble  is  always  pompous, 

and  Scrooge  is  always Scrooge.    At 

no  Dickens'  party  do  you  ever  mistake 
Cheeryble  for  Carker,  yet  in  real  life 
Carker  is  Carker  one  day  and  Cheeryble 
the  next — yes,  Carker  in  the  morning 
and  Cheeryble  after  dinner. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  a  dummy  so 
ridiculous  as  Pecksniff  has  reduced  the 
number  of  hypocrites  ;  and  the  domineer- 
ing and  unjust  are  not  quite  so  popular 
since  Dickens  painted  their  picture  with 
a  broom. 

From  the  yeasty  deep  of  his  imagination 
he  conjured  forth  his  strutting  spirits ; 
and  the  names  he  gave  to  each  are  as 
fitting  and  as  funny  as  the  absurd  small- 
clothes and  fluttering  ribbons  which  they 
wear. 

Shakespeare  has  his  Gobbo,  Touch- 
295 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


stone,  Simpcox,  Sly,  Grumio,  Mopsa, 
Pinch,  Nym,  Simple,  Quickly,  Overdone, 
Elbow,  Froth,  Dogberry,  Puck,  Peas- 
blossom,  Taurus,  Bottom,  Bushy,  Hot- 
spur, Scroop,  Wall,  Flute,  Snout,  Starve- 
ling, Moonshine,  Mouldy,  Shallow,  Wart, 
Bullcalf,  Feeble,  Quince,  Snag,  Dull, 
Mustardseed,  Fang,  Snare,  Rumour, 
Tearsheet,  Cobweb,  Costard,  and  Moth, 
but  in  names  as  well  as  in  plot  "  the  father 
of  Pickwick  "  has  distanced  the  Master. 
In  fact,  to  give  all  of  the  odd  and  whim- 
sical names  invented  by  Dickens  would 
be  to  publish  a  book,  for  he  compiled  an 
indexed  volume  of  names  from  which  he 
drew  at  will.  He  used,  however,  but  a 
fraction  of  his  list.  The  rest  are  wisely 
kept  from  the  public  else,  forsooth,  the 
fledgling  writers  of  penny-shockers  would 
seize  upon  them  for  raw-stock. 

Dickens  has  a  watch  that  starts  and 
stops  in  a  way  of  its  own— never  mind 
the  sun.  He  lets  you  see  the  wheels  go 
round,  but  he  never  tells  you  why  the 
wheels  go  round.  He  knows  little  of 
296 


2>(cfcens 

psychology — that  curious,  unseen  thing 
that  stands  behind  every  act.  He  knows 
not  the  highest  love,  therefore  he  never 
depicts  the  highest  joy.  Nowhere  does 
he  show  the  gradual  awakening  in  man 
of  God-like  passion — nowhere  does  he 
show  the  evolution  of  a  soul ;  very,  very 
seldom  does  he  touch  the  sublime. 

But  he  has  given  the  Athenians  a  day 
of  pleasure  and  for  this  let  us  all  rever- 
ently give  thanks. 


297 


•  y  , 


ft&\-    $J$/**><A~. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


299 


Jarvis.  A  few  of  our  usual  cards  of  compli- 
ment—that 's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor ;  this 
from  your  mercer ;  and  this  from  the  little  broker 
in  Crooked  I,ane.  He  says  he  has  been  at  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you  bor- 
rowed. 

Honeydew.  But  I  am  sure  we  were  at  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarvis.    He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeydew.    Then  he  has  lost  a  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were 
sending  to  the  poor  man  and  his  children  in  the 
Fleet.  I  believe  that  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a 
while. 

Honeydew.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  meantime  ? 

The  Good-Natured  Man. 


300 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


IRELAND  has  the  same  number  of 
square  miles  as  the  State  of  Indi- 
ana; it  also  has  more  kindness  to 
the  acre  than  any  other  country  on  earth. 
Ireland  has  five  million  inhabitants  ; 
once  it  had  eight.  Three  millions  have 
gone  away,  and  when  one  thinks  of  land- 
lordism he  wonders  why  the  five  million 
did  not  go,  too.  But  the  Irish  are  a  po- 
etic people  and  love  the  land  of  their 
fathers  with  a  childlike  love,  and  their 
hearts  are  all  bound  up  in  sweet  memo- 
ries, rooted  by  song  and  legend  into  nooks 
and  curious  corners,  so  the  tendrils  of  af- 
fection hold  them  fast. 

Ireland  is  very  beautiful.     Its  pasture 
301 


Gbe  fjaunts  of 


lands  and  meadow  lands,  blossom-decked 
and  water-fed,  crossed  and  re-crossed  by 
never-ending  hedgerows,  that  stretch 
away  and  lose  themselves  in  misty  noth- 
ingness, are  fair  as  a  poet's  dream. 
Birds  carol  in  the  white  hawthorn  and 
yellow  furze  all  day  long,  and  the  fragrant 
summer  winds  that  blow  lazily  across  the 
fields  are  laden  with  the  perfume  of  fair- 
est flowers. 

It  is  like  crossing  the  dark  river  called 
Death,  to  many,  to  think  of  leaving  Ire- 
land— besides  that,  even  if  they  wanted  to 
go  they  have  n't  money  to  buy  a  steerage 
ticket. 

From  across  the  dark  river  called  Death 
come  no  remittances  ;  but  from  America 
many  dollars  are  sent  back  to  Ireland. 
This  often  supplies  the  obolus  that  se- 
cures the  necessary  bit  of  Cunard  pass- 
port. 

Whenever  an  Irishman  embarks  at 
Queenstown,  part  of  the  five  million  in- 
habitants go  down  to  the  water-side  to 
see  him  off".  Not  long  ago  I  stood  with 
302 


©liver  (Bolfcsmitb 


the  crowd  and  watched  two  fine  lads  go 
up  the  gang-plank,  each  carrying  a  red 
handkerchief  containing  his  worldly 
goods.  As  the  good  ship  moved  away 
we  lifted  a  wild  wail  of  woe  that  drowned 
the  sobbing  of  the  waves.  Everybody 
cried — I  wept  too,  and  as  the  great  black 
ship  became  but  a  speck  on  the  western 
horizon  we  embraced  each  other  in  fren- 
zied grief. 

There  is  beauty  in  Ireland — physical 
beauty  of  so  rare  and  radiant  a  type  that 
it  makes  the  heart  of  an  artist  ache  to 
think  that  it  cannot  endure.  On  coun- 
try roads,  at  fair  time,  the  traveller  will 
see  barefoot  girls  who  are  women,  and 
just  suspecting  it,  who  have  cheeks  like 
ripe  pippins  ;  laughing  eyes  with  long, 
dark,  wicked  lashes ;  teeth  like  ivory ; 
necks  of  perfect  poise ;  and  waists  that, 
never  having  known  a  corset,  are  pure 
Greek. 

Of  course,  these  girls  are  aware  that  we 
admire  them, — how  could  they  help  it  ? 
They  carry  big  baskets  on  either  shapely 
303 


Hbe  f)aunts  of 


arm,  bundles  balanced  on  their  heads,  and 
we,  suddenly  grown  tired,  sit  on  the 
bank-side  as  they  pass  by,  and  feign  in- 
difference to  their  charms.  Once  safely 
past,  we  admiringly  examine  their  tracks 
in  the  soft  mud  (for  there  has  been  a 
shower  during  the  night),  and  we  vow 
that  such  footprints  were  never  before 
left  upon  the  sands  of  time. 

The  typical  young  woman  in  Ireland  is 
Juno  before  she  was  married ;  the  old 
woman  is  Sycorax  after  Caliban  was 
weaned.  Wrinkled,  toothless,  yellow  old 
hags  are  seen  sitting  by  the  roadside, 
rocking  back  and  forth,  crooning  a  song 
that  is  mate  to  the  chant  of  the  witches 
in  Macbeth  when  they  brew  the  hell- 
broth. 

See  that  wizened,  scarred,  and  cruel 
old  face — how  it  speaks  of  a  seared  and 
bitter  heart !  so  dull  yet  so  alert,  so 
changeful  yet  so  impassive,  so  immobile 
yet  so  cunning — a  paradox  in  wrinkles, 
where  half-stifled  desperation  has  clawed 
at  the  soul  until  it  has  fled,  and  only  dead 
304 


©liver  (BolOsmttb 


indifference  or  greedy  expectation  are 
left  to  tell  the  tragic  tale. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  charity,  kind 
gentlemen,  charity!"  and  the  old  croon 
stretches  forth  a  long  bony  claw.  Should 
you  pass  on  she  calls  down  curses  on  your 
head.  If  you  are  wise,  you  go  back  and 
fling  her  a  copper  to  stop  the  cold  streaks 
that  are  shooting  up  your  spine.  And 
these  old  women  were  the  most  trying 
sights  I  saw  in  Ireland. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  a  friend  of  mine  when 
I  told  him  this  ;  "  these  old  creatures  are 
actors,  and  if  you  would  sit  down  and  talk 
to  them,  as  I  have  done,  they  will  laugh 
and  joke,  and  tell  you  of  sons  in  Amer- 
ica who  are  policemen,  and  then  they 
will  fill  black  '  dhudeens '  out  of  your 
tobacco  and  ask  if  you  know  Mike 
McGuire  who  lives  in  She-ka-gy." 

The  last  trace  of  comeliness  has  long 
left  the  faces  of  these  repulsive  beggars, 
but  there  is  a  type  of  feminine  beauty 
that  comes  with  years.  It  is  found  only 
where  intellect  and  affection  keep  step 
305 


XLbc  "Ibaunts  of 


with  spiritual  desire ;  and  in  Ireland, 
where  it  is  often  a  crime  to  think,  where 
superstition  stalks,  and  avarice  rules,  and 
hunger  crouches,  it  is  very,  very  rare. 

But  I  met  one  woman  in  the  Emerald 
Isle  whose  hair  was  snow  white,  and 
whose  face  seemed  to  beam  a  benedic- 
tion. It  was  a  countenance  refined  by 
sorrow,  purified  by  aspiration,  made 
peaceful  by  right  intellectual  employ- 
ment, strong  through  self-reliance,  and 
gentle  by  an  earnest  faith  in  things  un- 
seen.    It  proved  the  possible. 

When  the  nations  are  disarmed  Ire- 
land will  take  first  place,  for  in  fistiana 
she  is  supreme. 

James  Russell  Lowell  once  said  that 
where  the  code  duello  exists,  men  lift 
their  hats  to  ladies,  and  say  "  excuse  me  " 
and  "  if  you  please."  And  if  Lowell  was 
so  bold  as  to  say  a  good  word  for  the  gen- 
tlemen who  hold  themselves  "personally 
responsible,"  I  may  venture  the  remark 
that  men  who  strike  from  the  shoulder 
are  almost  universally  polite  to  strangers. 
306 


©liver  <5ott>smitb 


A  woman  can  do  Ireland  afoot  and 
alone  with  perfect  safety.  Everywhere 
one  finds  courtesy,  kindness,  and  bub- 
bling good  cheer. 

Nineteen-twentieths  of  all  lawlessness 
in  Ireland  during  the  past  two  hundred 
years  has  been  directed  against  the  land- 
lord's agent.  This  is  a  very  Irish-like 
proceeding — to  punish  the  agent  for  the 
sins  of  the  principal.  When  the  land- 
lord himself  comes  over  from  England 
he  affects  a  fatherly  interest  in  "his  peo- 
ple." He  gives  out  presents  and  cheap 
favors  and  the  people  treat  him  with  hum- 
ble deference.  When  the  landlord's  agent 
goes  to  America  he  gets  a  place  as  first 
mate  on  a  Mississippi  River  steamboat ; 
and  before  the  war  he  was  in  demand  in 
the  South  as  overseer.  He  it  is  who  has 
taught  the  "byes  "  the  villainy  that  they 
execute  ;  and  it  sometimes  goes  hard,  for 
they  better  the  instruction. 

But  there  is  one  other  character  that  the 
boys  look  after  occasionally  in  Ireland, 
and  that  is  the  "  Squire."  He  is  a  merry 
307 


£be  tmunts  of 


wight  in  tight  breeches,  red  coat,  and  a 
number  six  hat.  He  has  yellow  side- 
whiskers  and  'unts  to  'ounds,  riding  over 
the  wheat  fields  of  honest  men.  The 
genuine  landlord  lives  in  London,  the 
Squire  would  like  to  but  cannot  afford 
it.  Of  course,  there  are  squires  and 
squires,  but  the  kind  I  have  in  mind  is 
an  Irishman  who  tries  to  pass  for  an  Eng- 
lishman. He  is  that  curious  thing — a 
man  without  a  country. 

There  is  a  theory  to  the  effect  that  the 
Universal  Mother  in  giving  out  happiness 
bestows  on  each  and  all  an  equal  portion 
—that  the  beggar  trudging  along  the 
stony  road  is  as  happy  as  the  king  who 
rides  by  in  his  carriage.  This  is  a  very 
old  belief,  and  it  has  been  held  by  many 
learned  men.  From  the  time  I  first  heard 
it,  it  appealed  to  me  as  truth. 

Yet  recently  my  faith  has  been  shaken  ; 
for  not  long  ago  in  New  York  I  climbed 
the  marble  steps  of  a  splendid  mansion 
and  was  admitted  by  a  servant  in  livery 
who  carried  my  card  on  a  silver  tray  to 
308 


©liver  ©olfcemitb 


his  master.  This  master  had  a  son  in  the 
"Keely  Institute,"  a  daughter  in  her 
grave,  and  a  wife  who  shrank  from  his 
presence.  His  heart  was  as  lonely  as  a 
winter  night  at  sea.  Fate  had  sent  him  a 
coachman,  a  butler,  a  gardener,  and  a  foot- 
man, but  she  took  his  happiness  and 
passed  it  through  a  hole  in  the  thatch  of 
a  mud-plastered  cottage  in  Ireland,  where, 
each  night,  six  rosy  children  soundly 
slept  in  one  straw  bed. 

In  that  cottage  I  stayed  two  days.  There 
was  a  stone  floor  and  bare  whitewashed 
walls ;  but  there  was  a  rosebush  climbing 
over  the  door,  and  within  health  and 
sunny  temper  that  made  mirth  with  a 
meal  of  herbs,  and  a  tenderness  that 
touched  to  poetry  the  prose  of  daily 
duties. 

But  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind  that  an 
Irishman  in  America  and  an  Irishman  in 
Ireland  are  not  necessarily  the  same 
thing.  Often  the  first  effect  of  a  higher 
civilization  is  degeneration.  Just  as  the 
Chinaman  quickly  learns  big  swear  words, 
309 


Gbe  t>aunt0  ot 


and  the  Indian  takes  to  drink,  and  certain 
young  men  on  first  reading  Emerson's 
essay  on  Self  Reliance  %o  about  with  a  chip 
on  their  shoulders,  so  sometimes  does  the 
first  full  breath  of  freedom's  air  develop 
the  worst  in  Paddy  instead  of  the  best. 

As  one  tramps  through  Ireland  and 
makes  the  acquaintance  of  a  blue-eyed 
broth  of  a  "bye,"  who  weighs  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety,  and  measures  forty-four 
inches  around  the  chest,  he  catches 
glimpses  of  notile  traits  and  hints  of  mys- 
tic possibilities.  There  are  actions  that 
look  like  rudiments  of  greatness  gone, 
and  you  think  of  the  days  when  Olympian 
games  were  played,  and  finger  meanwhile 
the  silver  in  your  pocket  and  inwardly 
place  it  on  this  twenty  year  old,  pink-faced, 
six-foot  "boy"  that  stands  before  you. 

In  Ireland  there  are  no  forests,  but  in 
the  peat  bogs  are  found  remains  of  mighty 
trees  that  once  lifted  their  outstretched 
branches  to  the  sun.  Are  these  remains 
of  stately  forests  symbols  of  a  race  of  men 
that  have,  too,  passed  away  ? 
310 


Oiivcv  ©olfcsmitb 


In  any  wayside  village  of  Leinster  you 
can  pick  you  a  model  for  an  Apollo.  He 
is  in  rags,  is  this  giant,  and  cannot  read, 
but  he  can  dance  and  sing  and  fight.  He 
has  an  eye  for  color,  an  ear  for  music,  a 
taste  for  rhyme,  a  love  of  novelty  and  a 
thirst  for  fun.  And  withal  he  has  blun- 
dering sympathy  and  a  pity  whose  tears 
are  near  the  surface. 

Now,  will  this  fine  savage  be  a  victim 
of  arrested  development,  and  sink  gradu- 
ally through  the  weight  of  years  into 
mere  animal  stupidity  and  sodden  super- 
stition ?  The  chances  are  that  this  is  just 
what  he  will  do,  and  that  at  twenty  he 
will  be  in  his  intellectual  zenith.  Sum- 
mer does  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  spring. 

But  as  occasionally  there  is  one  of  those 
beautiful  glowing  Irish  girls  who  leaves 
footsteps  that  endure  (in  bettered  lives) 
instead  of  merely  transient  tracks  in  mud, 
so  there  has  been  a  Burke,  a  Wellington, 
an  O'Connell,  a  Sheridan,  a  Tom  Moore 
and  an  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


3ii 


GOLDSMITH  was  an  Irishman ; 
Swift  was  an  Englishman,  who 
chanced  to  be  born  in  Dublin. 
In  comparing  these  men  Thackeray  says, 
"I  think  I  would  rather  have  had  a  cold 
potato  and  a  friendly  word  from  Gold- 
smith than  to  have  been  beholden  to  the 
Dean  for  a  guinea  and  a  dinner.  No,  the 
Dean  was  not  an  Irishman,  for  no  Irish- 
man ever  gave  but  with  a  kind  word  and 
a  kind  heart." 

Charles  Goldsmith  was  a  clergyman, 
passing  rich  on  forty  pounds  a  year.  He 
had  a  nice  little  family  of  eight  children, 
and  what  became  of  the  seven  who  went 
not  astray  I  do  not  know.  But  the  small- 
est and  homeliest  one  of  the  brood  became 
the  best  loved  man  in  London.  These 
sickly  boys  who  have  been  educated  only 
because  they  were  too  weak  to  work — 
what  a  record  their  lives  make  ! 
312 


©liver  <3olDsmftb 


little  Oliver  had  a  pug  nose  and  bandy- 
legs,  and  fists  not  big  enough  to  fight,  but 
he  had  a  large  head,  and  because  he  was 
absent-minded,  lots  of  folks  thought  him 
dull  and  stupid,  and  others  were  sure  he 
was  very  bad.  In  fact,  let  us  admit  it,  he 
did  steal  apples  and  rifle  birds'  nests,  and 
on  "the  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 
way"  he  drew  pictures  of  Paddy  Byrne, 
the  schoolmaster,  who  amazed  the  rustics 
by  the  amount  of  knowledge  that  he  car- 
ried in  one  small  head.  But  Paddy  Byrne 
did  not  love  art  for  art's  sake,  so  he  applied 
the  ferule  vigorously  to  little  Goldsmith's 
anatomy,  with  a  hope  of  diverting  the 
lad's  inclinations  from  art  to  arithmetic. 
I  do  not  think  the  plan  was  very  success- 
ful, for  the  pock-marked  youngster  was 
often  adorned  with  the  dunce  cap. 

"And,  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  many 
years  after,  "it must  have  been  very  be- 
coming." 

It  seems  that  Paddy  Byrne  "  boarded 
round,"  and  part  of  the  time  was  under 
the  roof  of  the  rectory.  Now  we  all  know 
313 


Gbe  f>aunt8  of 


that  schoolmasters  are  dual  creatures,  and 
that  once  away  from  the  school  yard, 
and  having  laid  aside  the  robe  of  office, 
are  often  good,  honest,  simple  folks.  In 
his  official  capacity  Paddy  Byrne  made 
things  very  uncomfortable  for  the  pug- 
nosed  little  boy,  but,  like  the  true  Irish- 
man that  he  was  when  he  got  away  from 
the  school-house,  he  was  sorry  for  it. 
Whether  dignity  is  the  mask  we  wear  to 
hide  our  ignorance,  I  am  not  sure,  yet 
when  Paddy  Byrne  was  the  schoolmaster 
he  was  a  man  severe  and  stern  to  view  ; 
but  when  he  was  plain  Paddy  Byrne  he 
was  a  first-rate  good  fellow. 

Evenings  he  would  hold  little  Oliver  on 
his  knee,  and  instead  of  helping  him  in 
his  lessons  would  tell  him  tales  of  rob- 
bers, pirates,  smugglers, — everything  and 
anything  in  fact  that  boys  like  :  stories 
of  fairies,  goblins,  ghosts  ;  lion  hunts  and 
tiger  killing  in  which  the  redoubtable 
Paddy  was  supposed  to  have  taken  a  chief 
part.  The  schoolmaster  had  been  a  sol- 
dier and  a  sailor.  He  had  been  in  many 
314 


©liver  <3olDsmttb 


lands  and  when  he  related  his  adventures 
no  doubt  he  often  mistook  imagination 
for  memory.  But  the  stories  had  the 
effect  of  choking  the  desire  in  Oliver  for 
useful  knowledge  and  gave  instead  a 
thirst  for  wandering  and  adventure. 

Byrne  also  had  a  taste  for  poetry  and 
taught  the  lad  to  scribble  rhymes.  Very 
proud  was  the  boy's  mother,  and  very 
carefully  did  she  preserve  these  foolish 
lines. 

All  this  was  in  the  village  of  Lissoy, 
County  Westmeath,  yet  if  you  look  on  the 
map  you  will  look  in  vain  for  Lissoy. 
But  six  miles  northeast  from  Athlone 
and  three  miles  from  Ballymahon  is  the 
village  of  Auburn. 

When  Goldsmith  was  a  boy  Lissoy  was : 


Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  the  earliest  visits  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  de- 
layed— 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats   of  my  youth,   when   every   sport   could 
please— 

315 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring 

hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  : 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train  from  labor  free, 
I^ed  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree — 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round. 


In  America  when  a  "city"  is  to  be 
started  the  first  thing  is  to  divide  up  the 
land  into  town  lots  and  then  sell  these 
lots  to  whoever  will  buy.  This  is  a  very 
modern  scheme.  But  in  Ireland  whole 
villages  belong  to  one  man  and  every  one 
in  the  place  pays  tribute.  Then  villages 
are  passed  down  from  generation  to  gene- 
ration and  sometimes  sold  outright,  but 
there  is  no  wish  to  dispose  of  corner  lots. 
For  when  a  man  lives  in  your  house  and 
you  can  put  him  out  at  any  time,  he  is 
316 


©liver  ©olDsmftb 


much  more  likely  to  be  civil  than  if  he 
owns  the  place. 

But  it  has  happened  many  times  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Irish  villages  have  all 
packed  up  and  deserted  the  place,  leaving 
no  one  but  the  village  squire  and  that 
nice  man,  the  landlord's  agent.  The 
cottages  then  are  turned  into  sheep  pens 
or  hay  barns.  They  may  be  pulled  down 
or  if  they  are  left  standing,  the  weather 
looks  after  that.  And  these  are  common 
sights  to  the  tourist. 

Now  the  landlord,  who  owned  every 
rood  of  the  village  of  Lissoy,  lived  in  Lon- 
don. He  lived  well.  He  gambled  a  lit- 
tle, and  as  the  cards  did  not  run  his  way 
he  got  into  debt.  So  he  wrote  to  his 
agent  in  Lissoy  to  raise  the  rents.  He 
did  so,  threatened,  applied  the  screws, 
and — the  inhabitants  packed  up  and  let 
the  landlord  have  his  village  all  to  him- 
self!    Let  Goldsmith  tell : 


Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn : 


317 


Zbe  fjaunts  of 


Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  overtops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 


A  titled  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Na- 
pier was  the  owner  of  the  estate  at  that 
time,  and  as  his  tenantry  had  left,  he  in 
wrath  pulled  down  their  rows  of  pretty 
white  cottages,  demolished  the  school- 
house,  blew  up  the  mill,  and  took  all  the 
material  and  built  a  splendid  mansion  on 
the  hillside. 

The  cards  had  evidently  turned  in  his 
direction,  but  anyway,  he  owned  several 
other  villages,  so  although  he  toiled  not 
neither  did  he  spin, 'yet  he  was  well  clothed 
and  always  fed.  But  my  lord  Napier  was 
not  immortal,  for  he  died,  and  was  buried ; 
3iS 


©liver  GolDsmitb 


and  over  his  grave  they  erected  a  monu- 
ment, and  on  it  are  these  words  :  "  He 
•was  the  friend  of  the  oppressed." 

The  records  of  literature,  so  far  as  I 
know,  show  no  such  moving  force  in  a 
simple  poem  as  the  re-birth  of  the  village 
of  Auburn.  No  man  can  live  in  a  village 
and  illuminate  it  by  his  genius.  His  fel- 
low-townsmen and  neighbors  are  not  to 
be  influenced  by  his  eloquence  except  in 
a  very  limited  way.  His  presence  creates 
an  opposition,  for  the  "  personal  touch  " 
repels  as  well  as  attracts.  Dying,  seven 
cities  may  contend  for  the  honor  of  his 
birthplace,  or  after  his  departure,  knowl- 
edge of  his  fame  may  travel  back  across 
the  scenes  that  he  has  known,  and  move 
to  better  things. 

The  years  went  by  and  the  Napier 
estate  got  into  a  bad  way  and  was  sold. 
Captain  Hogan  became  the  owner  of 
the  site  of  the  village  of  Lissoy.  Now 
Captain  Hogan  was  a  poet  in  feeling,  and 
he  set  about  to  replace  the  village  that 
Goldsmith  had  loved  and  immortalized. 
319 


Gbe  1)aunt0  of 


He  adopted  the  name  that  Goldsmith 
supplied,  and  Auburn  it  is  even  unto  this 
day. 

In  the  village  green  is  the  original 
spreading  hawthorn  tree,  all  enclosed  in 
in  a  stone  wall  to  preserve  it.  And  on 
the  wall  is  a  sign  requesting  you  not  to 
break  off  branches.  Around  the  tree  are 
seats.  I  sat  there  one  evening  with 
"  talking  age  "  and  "  whispering  lovers." 
The  mirth  that  night  was  of  a  quiet  sort, 
and  I  listened  to  an  old  man  who  recited 
all  of  The  Deserted  Village  to  the  little 
group  that  was  present.  It  cost  me  six 
pence  but  was  cheap  for  the  money,  for 
the  brogue  was  very  choice.  I  was  the 
only  stranger  present  and  quickly  guessed 
that  the  entertainment  was  for  my  sole 
benefit,  as  I  saw  that  I  was  being  furtively 
watched  to  see  how  I  took  my  medicine. 

A  young  fellow  sitting  near  me  offered 
a  little  Goldsmith  information,  then  a 
woman  on  the  other  side  did  the  same, 
and  the  old  man  who  had  recited  sug- 
gested that  we  go  over  and  see  the  ale- 
320 


©liver  GoIDsmitb 


house  "  where  the  justly  celebhrated 
Docther  Goldsmith  so  often  played  his 
harp  so  feelin'ly." 

So  we  adjourned  to  The  Three  Jolly 
Pigeons — a  dozen  of  us,  including  the 
lovers,  whom  I  personally  invited. 

"  And  did  Oliver  Goldsmith  really  play 
his  harp  in  this  very  room  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Aye,  indade  he  did,  yer  honor,  an'  ef 
ye  don't  belave  it,  ye  kin  sit  in  the  same 
chair  that  was  his." 

So  they  led  me  to  the  big  chair  that 
stood  on  a  little  raised  platform,  and  I  sat 
in  the  great  oaken  seat  which  was  surely 
made  before  Goldsmith  was  born.  Then 
we  all  took  ale  (at  my  expense).  The 
lovers  sat  in  one  corner,  drinking  from 
one  glass,  and  very  particular  to  drink 
from  the  same  side,  and  giggling  to 
themselves.  The  old  man  wanted  to 
again  recite  The  Deserted  Village,  but 
was  forcibly  restrained.  And  instead,  by 
invitation  of  himself,  the  landlord  sang  a 
song  composed  by  Goldsmith,  but  which 
I  have  failed  to  find  in  Goldsmith's 
321 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


works,  entitled  When  Ireland  is  Free. 
There  were  thirteen  stanzas  in  this  song, 
and  a  chorus  and  refrain  in  which  the 
words  of  the  title  are  repeated.  After 
each  stanza  we  all  came  in  strong  on  the 
chorus,  keeping  time  by  tapping  our 
glasses  on  the  tables. 

Then  we  all  drank  perdition  to  English 
landlords,  had  our  glasses  refilled,  and  I 
was  called  on  for  a  speech.  I  responded 
in  a  few  words  that  were  loudly  cheered, 
and  the  health  of  "the  'Mexican  Noble- 
man "  was  drunk  with  much  fervor. 

The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  is  arranged 
exactly  to  the  letter : 

The  whitewashed  walls,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that   clicked  behind   the 

door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose. 

And  behold  there  on  the  wall  behind 
the  big  oak  chair  are  "the  twelve  good 
rules." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  the  modest 
322 


Qlivci  (Bolfcsmitb 


mansion  of  the  village  preacher,  "whose 
house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 
train,"  then  the  little  stone  church,  and 
beyond  I  came  to  the  blossoming  furze, 
unprofitably  gay,  where  the  village 
master  taught  his  little  school.  A  bright 
young  woman  teaches  there  now,  and  it 
is  certain  that  she  can  write  and  cipher 
too,  for  I  saw  "sums  "  on  the  blackboard, 
and  I  also  saw  where  she  had  written 
some  very  pretty  mottoes  on  the  wall 
with  colored  chalk,  a  thing  I  am  sure 
that  Paddy  Byrne  never  thought  to  do. 

Below  the  school-house  is  a  pretty  little 
stream  that  dances  over  pebbles  and  un- 
tiringly turns  the  wheel  in  the  old  mill ; 
and  not  far  away  I  saw  the  round  top  of 
Knockrue  hill,  where  Goldsmith  said  he 
would  rather  sit  with  a  book  in  hand  than 
mingle  with  the  throng  at  the  court  of 
royalty. 

Goldsmith's  verse  is  all  clean,  sweet, 

and  wholesome,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that 

he  was  everywhere  a  favorite  with  women. 

This  was  true  in  his  very  babyhood.    For 

323 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


he  was  the  pet  of  several  good  old  dames, 
one  of  whom  taught  him  to  count  by- 
using  cards  as  obj  ect-lessons.  He  proudly 
said  that  when  he  was  three  years  of  age 
he  could  pick  out  the  "ten  spot."  This 
love  of  pasteboard  was  not  exactly  an 
advantage,  for  when  he  was  sixteen  he 
went  to  Dublin  to  attend  college,  and  car- 
ried fifty  pounds  and  a  deck  of  cards  in 
his  pocket.  The  first  day  in  Dublin  he 
met  a  man  who  thought  he  knew  more 
about  cards  than  Oliver  did ;  and  the 
man  did  ;  in  three  days  Oliver  arrived 
back  in  Sweet  Auburn  penniless,  but 
wonderfully  glad  to  get  home  and  every- 
body glad  to  see  him.  "  It  seemed  as  if 
I  'd  been  away  a  year,"  he  said. 

But  in  a  few  weeks  he  started  out  with 
no  baggage  but  a  harp,  and  he  played  in 
the  villages  and  at  the  inns,  and  some- 
times at  the  homes  of  the  rich.  And  his 
melodies  won  all  hearts. 

The  author  of  Vanity  Fair  says  :  "  You 
come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day's  battle, 
and  this  sweet  minstrel  sings  to  you. 
324 


©liver  (BolDsmftb 


Who  could  harm  the  kind  vagrant  harper  ? 
Whom  did  he  ever  hurt  ?  He  carries  no 
weapon — only  the  harp  on  which  he 
plays  to  you  ;  and  with  which  he  delights 
great  and  humble,  young  and  old,  the 
captains  in  the  tent  or  the  soldiers  round 
the  fire,  or  the  women  and  children  in 
the  villages  at  whose  porches  he  stops 
and  sings  his  simple  songs  of  love  and 
beauty." 


325 


m. 

IN  1756  Goldsmith  arrived  in  London 
ragged,  penniless,  friendless,  and 
forlorn.  In  the  country  he  could 
make  his  way,  but  the  city  was  new  and 
strange.  For  several  days  he  begged  a 
crust  here  and  there,  sleeping  in  the 
doorways  at  night  and  dreaming  of  the 
flowery  wealth  of  gentle  Lissoy,  where 
even  the  poorest  had  enough  to  eat  and 
a  warm  place  to  huddle  when  the  sun 
went  down. 

He  at  length  found  work  as  clerk  or 
porter  in  a  chemist's  shop,  where  he  re- 
mained until  he  got  money  enough  to 
buy  a  velvet  coat  and  a  ruffled  shirt,  and 
then  he  moved  to  the  Bankside  and  hung 
out  a  surgeon's  sign.  The  neighbors 
thought  the  little  doctor  funny,  and  the 
women  would  call  to  him  out  of  the  sec- 
ond story  window  that  it  was  a  fine  day, 
326 


Qlivez  (SolDsmftb 


but  when  they  were  ill  they  sent  for 
some  one  else  to  attend  them. 

Goldsmith  was  twenty-eight,  and  the 
thought  that  he  could  make  a  living  with 
his  pen  had  never  come  to  him.  Yet  he 
loved  books  and  he  would  loiter  about 
bookshops,  pricing  first  editions,  and 
talking  poetry  to  the  patrons.  He 
chanced  in  this  way  to  meet  Samuel 
Richardson,  who,  because  he  wrote  the 
first  English  romance,  has  earned  the  title 
of  Father  of  Lies.  In  order  to  get  a  very 
necessary  loaf  of  bread,  Dr.  Goldsmith 
asked  Richardson  to  let  him  read  proof. 
So  Richardson  gave  him  employment, 
and  in  correcting  proof  the  discovery  was 
made  that  the  Irish  doctor  could  turn  a 
sentence,  too. 

He  became  affected  with  literary  ec- 
zema, and  wrote  a  tragedy  which  he  read 
to  Richardson  and  a  few  assembled 
friends.  They  voted  it  "vile,  demnition 
vile."  But  one  man  thought  it  wasn't 
so  bad  as  it  might  be,  and  this  man  found 
a  market  for  some  of  the  little  doctor's 
327 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


book  reviews,  but  the  tragedy  was  fed  to 
the  fireplace.  With  the  money  for  his 
book  reviews  the  doctor  bought  goose 
quills  and  ink,  and  inspiration  in  bottles. 

Grub  Street  dropped  in,  shabby,  seedy, 
empty  of  pocket  but  full  of  hope,  and 
little  suppers  were  given  in  dingy  coffee 
houses  where  success  to  English  letters 
was  drunk. 

Then  we  find  Goldsmith  making  a  bold 
stand  for  reform.  He  hired  out  to  write 
magazine  articles  by  the  day  ;  going  to 
work  in  the  morning  when  the  bell  rang, 
an  hour  off  at  noon,  and  then  at  it  again 
until  nightfall.  Mr.  Griffiths,  publisher 
of  the  Monthly  Review,  was  his  employer. 
And  in  order  to  hold  his  newly  captured 
prize,  the  publisher  boarded  the  pock- 
marked Irishman  in  his  own  house. 
Mrs.  Griffiths  looked  after  him  closely, 
spurring  him  on  when  he  lagged,  correct- 
ing his  copy,  striking  out  such  portions 
as  showed  too  much  genius  and  inserting 
a  word  here  and  there  in  order  to  make  a 
purely  neutral  decoction,  which  it  seems 
328 


©liver  <5olfcsmftb 


is  what  magazine  readers  have  always 
desired.  Occasionally  these  articles  were 
duly  fathered  by  great  men,  as  this  gave 
them  the  required  specific  gravity. 

It  is  said  that  even  in  our  day  there  are 
editors  who  employ  convict  labor  in  this 
way.  But  I  am  sure  that  this  is  not  so, 
for  we  live  in  an  age  of  competition,  and 
it  is  just  as  cheap  to  hire  the  great  men 
to  supply  twaddle  direct  as  to  employ 
foreign  paupers  to  turn  it  out  with  the 
extra  expense  of  elderly  women  to  revise. 

After  working  in  the  Griffith  literary 
mill  for  five  months,  Goldsmith  scaled  the 
barricade  one  dark  night,  leaving  behind, 
pasted  on  the  wall,  a  ballad  not  only  to 
Mrs.  Griffiths'  eyebrow,  but  her  wig  as 
well. 

Soon  after  this,  when  Goldsmith  was 
thirty  years  of  age,  his  first  book,  Enquiry 
into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe,  was  published.  It  brought 
him  a  little  money  and  tuppence  worth  of 
fame,  so  he  took  better  lodgings,  in  Green 
Arbor  Court,  proposing  to  do  great  things. 
329 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


Half  a  century  after  the  death  of 
Goldsmith,  Irving  visited  Green  Arbor 
Court: 

"  At  length  we  came  upon  Fleet  Mar- 
ket, and  traversing  it,  turned  up  a  narrow 
street  to  the  bottom  of  a  long,  steep 
flight  of  stone  steps  called  Breakneck 
Stairs.  These  led  to  Green  Arbor  Court, 
and  down  them  Goldsmith  many  a  time 
risked  his  neck.  When  we  entered  the 
Court,  I  could  not  but  smile  to  think  in 
what  out-of-the-way  corners  Genius  pro- 
duces her  bantlings.  The  Court  I  found 
to  be  a  small  square  surrounded  by  tall 
miserable  houses  with  old  garments  and 
frippery  fluttering  from  every  window. 
It  appeared  to  be  a  region  of  washer- 
women, and  lines  were  stretched  about 
the  square  on  which  clothes  were  dang- 
ling to  dry.  Poor  Goldsmith  !  What  a 
time  he  must  have  had  of  it,  with  his  quiet 
disposition  and  nervous  habits,  penned 
up  in  this  den  of  noise  and  vulgarity." 

One   can  imagine   Goldsmith  running 
the  whole   gamut  of  possible   jokes    on 
330 


©liver  <5otf>0mitb 


Breakneck  Stairs,  and  Green  Arbor  Court, 
which,  by  the  way,  was  never  green  and 
where  there  was  no  arbor. 

"  I  've  been  admitted  to  Court,  gentle- 
men !  "  said  Goldsmith  proudly,  one  day 
at  The  Mitre  Tavern. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Doctor,  we  know,  Green  Ar- 
bor Court !  and  any  man  who  has  climbed 
Breakneck  Stairs  has  surely  achieved," 
said  Tom  Davies. 

In  1760  Goldsmith  moved  to  No.  6 
Wine  Office  Court,  where  he  wrote  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Boswell  reports  Dr. 
Johnson's  account  of  visiting  him  there : 

"  I  received,  one  morning,  a  message 
from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great 
distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to 
come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come 
to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a 
guinea  and  promised  to  come  to  him 
directly.  I  accordingly  went  to  him  as 
soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his 
landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at 
which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  per- 
ceived that  he  had  already  changed  my 
33i 


Gbe  f>aunts  of 


guinea,  and  had  half  a  bottle  of  Madeira 
and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  in 
the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm  and 
began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by 
which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then 
told  me  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the 
press,  which  he  produced  for  me.  I 
looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merits ;  told 
the  landlady  I  would  soon  return,  and  hav- 
ing gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty 
pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money 
and  he  discharged  the  rent,  not  without 
rating  his  landlady  for  having  used  him 
so  ill." 

For  the  play  of  The  Good-Natured 
Man  Goldsmith  received  five  hundred 
pounds.  And  he  immediately  expended 
four  hundred  in  mahogany  furniture,  easy 
chairs,  lace  curtains  and  Wilton  carpets. 
Then  he  called  in  his  friends.  This  was 
at  No.  2  Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple. 
Blackstone  had  chambers  just  below,  and 
was  working  as  hard  over  his  Commen- 
taries as  many  a  lawyer's  clerk  has  done 
since.  He  complained  of  the  abominable 
332 


©liver  (BolDsmitb 


noise  and  racket  of  "  those  fellows  up- 
stairs," but  was  asked  to  come  in  and 
listen  to  wit  while  he  had  the  chance. 

I  believe  the  bailiffs  eventually  cap- 
tured the  mahogany  furniture,  but  Gold- 
smith held  the  quarters.  They  are  to-day 
in  good  repair,  and  the  people  who  occupy 
the  house  are  very  courteous,  and  oblig- 
ingly show  the  rooms  to  the  curious.  No 
attempt  at  a  museum  is  made,  but  there 
are  to  be  seen  various  articles  which  be- 
longed to  Goldsmith  and  a  collection  of 
portraits  that  are  interesting. 

When  The  Traveller  was  published 
Goldsmith's  fame  was  made  secure.  As 
long  as  he  wrote  plays,  reviews,  history, 
and  criticism  he  was  working  for  hire. 
People  said  it  was  "clever,"  "  brilliant,  " 
and  all  that,  but  their  hearts  were  not 
won  until  the  poet  had  poured  out  his 
soul  to  his  brother  in  that  gentlest  of  all 
sweet  rhymes.  I  pity  the  man  who  can 
read  the  opening  lines  of  The  Traveller 
without  a  misty  something  coming  over 
his  vision  : 

333 


Gbe  f>aunts  of 


"Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see, 
My  heart  untravelled  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 


This  is  the  earliest  English  poem  which 
I  can  recall  that  makes  use  of  our  Ameri- 
can Indian  names : 


"Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound. 


Indeed  we  came  near  having  Goldsmith 
for  an  adopted  citizen.  According  to  his 
own  report  he  once  secured  passage  to 
Boston,  and  after  carrying  his  baggage 
aboard  the  ship  he  went  back  to  town  to 
say  a  last  hurried  word  of  farewell  to  a 
fair  lady,  and  when  he  got  back  to  the 
dock  the  ship  had  sailed  away  with  his 
luggage. 

His  wish  was  to  spend  his  last  days  in 
Sweet  Auburn  : 


In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  those  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 

334 


©liver  ©olfcsmttb 


To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  its  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes— for  pride  attends  us  still- 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw. 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return— and  die  at  home  at  last. 

But  he  never  saw  Ireland  after  he  left 
it  in  1754.  He  died  in  London  in  1774, 
aged  forty-six. 

On  the  plain  little  monument  in  Tem- 
ple Church  where  he  was  buried  are  only 
these  words  : 

Here  Lies  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Hawkins  once  called  on  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland  and  found  Goldsmith 
waiting  in  an  outer  room,  having  come 
in  response  to  an  invitation  from  the 
nobleman.  Hawkins  having  finished  his 
business,  waited  until  Goldsmith  came 
out,  as  he  had  a  curiosity  to  know  why 
the  Earl  had  sent  for  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Hawkins,  "  what  did  he 
say  to  you?" 

335 


Gbe  founts  ot 


u  His  lordship  told  me  that  he  had  read 
The  Traveller,  and  that  he  was  pleased 
with  it,  and  that  inasmuch  as  he  was  soon 
to  be  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and 
knowing  I  was  an  Irishman,  asked  what 
he  could  do  for  me  !  " 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him?"  en- 
quired the  eager  Hawkins. 

"  Why  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  say, 
but  that  I  was  glad  he  liked  my  poem, 
and — that  I  had  a  brother  in  Ireland,  a 
clergyman,  who  stood  in  need  of  help — " 

"Enough!"  cried  Hawkins,  and  left 
him. 

To  Hawkins  himself  are  we  indebted 
for  the  incident,  and  after  relating  it  Haw- 
kins adds : 

"  And  thus  did  this  idiot  in  the  affairs 
of  the  world  trifle  with  his  fortunes  !  " 

Let  him  who  wishes  preach  a  sermon 
on  this  story.  But  there  you  have  it ! 
"  A  brother  in  Ireland  who  needs  help — " 
The  brother  in  London,  the  brother  in 
America,  the  brother  in  Ireland  who 
needs  help  !  All  men  were  his  brothers, 
336 


Olivet  0olDsmitb 


and  those  who  needed  help  were  first  in 
his  mind. 

Dear  little  Doctor  Goldsmith,  yon  were 
not  a  hustler,  but  when  I  get  to  Hades 
I  '11  surely  hunt  you  up  ! 


337 


'L*m    ^^tJfftl' 


**ff* 


SHAKESPEARE. 


339 


It  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded 
of  many  simples,  extracted  from  many  objects, 
and  indeed  the  sundry  contemplation  of  my 
travels,  in  which  my  often  rumination  wraps  me 
in  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

As  You  Like  It. 


340 


SHAKESPEARE. 


i. 


I  HAVE  been  to  the  Shakespeare 
country  several  times,  approaching 
it  from  different  directions,  but  each 
time  I  am  set  down  at  Leamington.  Per- 
haps this  is  by  Act  of  Parliament ;  I  do 
not  know,  anyway  I  have  ceased  to  kick 
against  the  pricks  and  now  meekly  accept 
my  fate. 

Leamington  seems  largely  under  sub- 
jection to  that  triumvirate  of  despots,  the 
Butler,  the  Coachman  and  the  Gardener. 
You  hear  the  jingle  of  keys,  the  flick  of 
the  whip,  and  the  rattle  of  lawn  mower  ; 
and  a  cold,  secret  fear  takes  possession 
of  you — a  sort  of  half-frenzied  impulse  to 
341 


Zbe  fjaunts  of 


flee  before  smug  modernity  takes  you  cap- 
tive and  whisks  you  off  to  play  tiddledy- 
winks  or  to  dance  the  racquet. 
'  But  the  tram  is  at  the  door — the  outside 
fare  is  a  penny,  inside  it 's  two — and  we 
are  soon  safe,  for  we  have  reached  the 
point  where  the  Learn  and  the  Avon  meet. 

Warwick  is  worth  our  while.  For  here 
we  see  scenes  such  as  Shakespeare  saw, 
and  our  delight  is  in  the  things  that  his 
eyes  beheld. 

At  the  foot  of  Mill  Street  are  the  ruins 
of  the  old  Gothic  bridge  that  leads  off  to 
Banbury.  Oft  have  I  ridden  to  Banbury 
Cross  on  my  mother's  foot,  and  when  I 
saw  that  sign  and  pointing  finger  I  felt  like 
leaving  all  and  flying  thence.  Just  be- 
yond, settled  snugly  in  a  forest  of  waving 
branches  we  see  storied  old  Warwick  Cas- 
tle, with  Caesar's  Tower  lifting  itself  from 
the  mass  of  green. 

All  about  are  quaint  old  houses  and 
shops,  with  red  tiled  roofs  and  little  win- 
dows   with    diamond    panes,   hung  on 
hinges,  where  maidens  fair  have  looked 
342 


Sbafcespeare 


down  on  brave  men  in  coats  of  mail. 
These  narrow,  stony  streets  have  rung 
with  the  clang  and  echo  of  hurrying 
hoofs  ;  the  tramp  of  Royalist  and  Parlia- 
mentarian, horse  and  foot,  drum  and  ban- 
ner ;  the  stir  of  princely  visits,  of  mail 
coach,  market,  assize  and  kingly  court. 
Colbrand,  armed  with  giant  club  ;  Sir 
Guy ;  Richard  Neville,  king-maker  and 
all  his  barbaric  train  trod  these  streets, 
watered  their  horses  in  this  river,  camped 
on  yonder  bank,  or  huddled  in  this  castle 
yard.  And  again  they  came  back  when 
Will  Shakespeare,  a  youth  from  Stratford, 
eight  miles  away,  came  here  and  waved 
his  magic  wand. 

Warwick  Castle  is  in  better  condition 
now  probably  than  it  was  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  But  practically  it  is  the  same.  It 
is  the  only  castle  in  England  where  the 
portcullis  is  lowered  at  ten  o'clock  every 
night  and  raised  in  the  morning  (if  the 
coast  is  clear)  to  tap  of  drum. 

It  costs  a  shilling  to  visit  the  castle.  A 
fine  old  soldier  in  spotless  uniform,  with 
343 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


waxed  white  mustache  and  dangling 
sword  conducts  the  visitors.  He  imparts 
full  two  shillings'  worth  of  facts  as  we  go, 
all  with  a  fierce  roll  of  r's  as  becomes  a 
man  of  war. 

The  long  line  of  battlements,  the  mas- 
sive buttresses,  the  angular  entrance  cut 
through  solid  rock,  crooked,  abrupt,  with 
places  where  fighting  men  can  lie  in  am- 
bush, all  is  as  Shakespeare  knew  it. 

There  are  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 
brought  by  crusaders  from  the  East,  the 
screaming  peacocks  in  the  paved  court- 
way,  and  in  the  Great  Hall  are  to  be  seen 
the  sword  and  accoutrements  of  the  fabled 
Guy;  the  mace  of  the  "King-Maker"; 
the  helmet  of  Cromwell  and  the  armor  of 
Lord  Brooke,  killed  at  Litchfield. 

And  that  Shakespeare  saw  these  things 
there  is  no  doubt.  But  he  saw  them  as  a 
countryman  who  came  on  certain  fete 
days,  and  stared  with  open  mouth.  We 
know  this,  because  he  has  covered  all  with 
the  glamour  of  his  rich,  boyish  imagina- 
tion that  failed  to  perceive  the  cruel  mock- 
344 


Sbafcespeare 


ery  of  such  selfish  pageantry.  Had  his 
view  been  from  the  inside  he  would  not 
have  made  his  kings  noble  nor  his  princes 
generous ;  for  the  stress  of  strife  would 
have  stilled  his  laughter,  and  from  his 
brain  the  dazzling  pictures  would  have 
fled.  Yet  his  fancies  serve  us  better  than 
the  facts. 

Shakespeare  shows  us  many  castles, 
but  they  are  always  different  views  of 
Warwick  or  Kenil worth.  When  he  pic- 
tures Macbeth's  castle  he  has  Warwick 
in  his  inward  eye : 


This  castle  has  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses ; 

This  guest  of  summer,  the  temple  haunting  mar- 
let,  does  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heavens  breath 

Smells  wooingly  here  ;  no  jetty,  frieze, 
Buttress  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle. 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt  I  have  observed 
The  air  is  delicate. 


Five  miles  from  Warwick  (ten  if  you 
believe  the  cab  drivers)  are  the  ruins  of 
Kenilworth  Castle. 

345 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


In  1575,  when  Shakespeare  was  eleven 
years  of  age,  Queen  Elizabeth  came  to 
Kenilworth.  Whether  her  ticket  was  by 
way  of  Leamington  I  do  not  know.  But 
she  remained  from  July  9th  to  July  27th, 
and  there  were  great  doings  'most  every 
day,  to  which  the  yeomanry  were  oft  in- 
vited. John  Shakespeare  was  a  worthy 
citizen  of  Warwickshire  and  it  is  very 
probable  that  he  received  an  invitation, 
and  that  he  drove  over  with  Mary  Arden, 
his  wife,  sitting  on  the  front  seat  holding 
the  baby,  and  all  of  the  other  seven  chil- 
dren sitting  in  the  straw  behind.  And  we 
may  be  sure  that  the  eldest  boy  in  that 
brood  never  forgot  the  day.  In  fact,  in 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  he  has 
called  on  his  memory  for  certain  features 
of  the  show.  Elizabeth  was  forty-one 
years  old  then,  but  very  attractive  and 
glib  of  tongue  according  to  accounts. 

No  doubt  Kenilworth  was  stupendous 
in  its  magnificence,  and  it  will  pay  you  to 
take  down  from  its  shelf    Sir  Walter's 
novel  and  read  what  he  says  of  it. 
346 


Sbafcespeare 


But  to-day  it  is  all  a  crumbling  heap  ; 
ivy,  rooks  and  daws  hold  the  place  in  fee 
and  each  is  pushing  hard  for  sole  posses- 
sion. 

It  is  eight  miles  from  Warwick  to  Strat- 
ford by  the  direct  road  but  ten  by  the 
river.  I  have  walked  both  routes  and  con- 
sider the  latter  the  shortest. 

Two  miles  down  the  river  is  Barford  and 
a  mile  further  is  Wasperton,  where  there 
is  a  quaint  old  stone  church.  It  is  a  good 
place  to  rest :  for  nothing  is  so  soothing  as 
a  cool  church  where  the  dim  light  streams 
through  colored  windows,  and  out  of  sight 
somewhere,  an  organ  softly  plays. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  church  a  rustic 
swain  hailed  me  and  asked  for  a  match. 
This  pipe  and  the  Virginia  weed — they 
mean  amity  the  wide  world  over.  If  I 
had  questions  to  ask  now  was  the  time ! 
So  I  asked,  and  Rusticus  informed  me 
that  Hampton  Lucy  was  only  a  mile  be- 
yond and  that  Shakespeare  never  stole 
deer  at  all ;  so  I  hope  we  shall  hear  no 
more  of  that  libelous  accusation. 
347 


Gbe   Daunts  of 


"  But  did  Shakespeare  run  away  ?  "  I 
demanded. 

"  Ave  coorse  he  deed,  sir,  'most  all  good 
men  'ave  roon  away  sometime  !  " 

And  come  to  think  of  it  Rusticusis  right. 

Most  great  men  have  at  some  time  de- 
parted hastily  without  leaving  orders 
where  to  forward  their  mail.  Indeed  it 
seems  necessary  that  a  man  should  have 
"  run  away  "  at  least  once,  in  order  after- 
ward to  attain  eminence.  Moses,  Lot, 
Tarquin,  Pericles,  Demosthenes,  St.  Paul, 
Shakespeare,  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Gold- 
smith, Hugo — but  the  list  is  too  long  to 
give. 

But  just  suppose  that  Shakespeare  had 
not  run  away  !  And  to  whom  do  we  owe 
it  that  he  did  leave— Justice  Shallow  or 
Ann  Hathaway — or  both  ?  I  should  say  to 
Ann  first  and  His  Honor  second.  I  think 
if  Shakespeare  could  write  an  article  for 
The  Ladies*  Home  Journal  on  "  Women 
who  have  helped  me,"  and  tell  the  whole 
truth  (as  no  man  ever  will  in  print),  he 
would  put  Ann  Hathaway  first. 
343 


Sbafcespeare 


He  signed  a  bond  when  eighteen  years 
old  agreeing  to  marry  her ;  she  was 
twenty-six.  No  record  is  found  of  the 
marriage.  But  we  should  think  of  her 
gratefully,  for  no  doubt  it  was  she  who 
started  the  lad  off  for  London. 

That's  the  way  I  expressed  it  to  my 
new-found  friend  and  he  agreed  with  mej 
so  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Charlcote  is  as  fair  as  a  dream  of  para- 
dise. The  winding  Avon,  full  to  its  banks, 
strays  lazily  through  rich  fields  and  across 
green  meadows,  past  the  bright  red-brick 
pile  of  Charlcote  mansion.  The  river 
bank  is  lined  with  rushes  and  in  one  place 
I  saw  the  prongs  of  antlers  shaking  the 
elders.  I  sent  a  shrill  whistle  and  a  stick 
that  way,  and  out  ran  four  fine  deer  that 
loped  gracefully  across  the  turf.  The 
sight  brought  my  poacher  instincts  to  the 
surface,  but  I  bottled  them,  and  trudged 
on  until  I  came  to  the  little  church  that 
stands  at  the  entrance  to  the  park. 

All  mansions,  castles  and  prisons  in 
England  have  chapels  or  churches  at- 
349 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


tached.  And  this  is  well,  for  in  the  good 
old  days  it  seemed  wise  to  keep  in  close 
communication  with  the  other  world. 
For  often,  on  short  notice,  the  prond  scion 
of  royalty  was  compelled  hastily  to  pack 
a  ghostly  valise  and  hie  him  hence  with 
his  battered  soul ;  or  if  he  did  not  go  him- 
self he  compelled  others  to  do  so,  and  who 
but  a  brute  would  kill  a  man  without 
benefit  of  the  clergy !  So  each  estate 
hired  its  priests  by  the  year,  just  as  men 
with  a  taste  for  litigation  hold  attorneys 
in  constant  retainer. 

In  Charlcote  church  is  a  memorial  to 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  ;  and  there  is  a  glowing 
epitaph  that  quite  upsets  any  of  those 
taunting  and  defaming  allusions  in  The 
Merry  Wives.  At  the  foot  of  the  monu- 
ment is  a  line  to  the  effect  that  the  in- 
scription thereon  was  written  by  the  only 
one  who  was  in  possession  of  the  facts  : 
Sir  Thomas  himself. 

Several  epitaphs  in  the  churchyard  are 
worthy  of  space  in  your  commonplace 
book,  but  the  lines  on  the  slab  to  John 
350 


Sbafcespeare 


Gibbs  and  "wife,  struck  me  as  having  the 
true  ring : 

Farewell,  proud,  vain,  false,  treacherous  world, 

We  have  seen  enough  of  thee  : 
We  value  not  what  thou  canst  say  of  we. 

When  the  Charlcote  mansion  was  built 
there  was  a  house-warming  and  Good 
Queen  Bess  (who  was  not  so  awful  good) 
came  in  great  state ;  so  we  see  that  she 
had  various  calling  acquaintances  in  these 
parts .  But  we  have  n  o  proof  that  she  ever 
knew  that  any  such  person  as  W.  Shake- 
speare lived.  However  she  came  to  Charl- 
cote and  dined  on  venison,  and  what  a 
pity  it  is  that  she  and  Shakespeare  did 
not  meet  in  London  afterward  and  talk  it 
over! 

Some  hasty  individual  has  put  forth  a 
statement  to  the  effect  that  poets  can  only 
be  bred  in  a  mountainous  country,  where 
they  could  lift  up  their  eyes  to  the  hills. 
Rock  and  ravine,  beetling  crag,  singing 
cascade,  and  the  heights  where  the  light- 
ning plays  and  the  mists  hover  are  cer- 
35i 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


tainly  good  timber  for  poetry — after  you 
have  caught  your  poet,  but  nature  eludes 
all  formula.  Again  it  is  the  human  inter- 
est that  adds  vitality  to  art — they  reckon 
ill  who  leave  man  out. 

Drayton  before  Shakespeare's  time 
called  Warwick  "  the  heart  of  England," 
and  the  heart  of  England  it  is  to-day  :  rich, 
luxuriant,  slow.  The  great  colonies  of 
rabbits  that  I  saw  at  Charlcote  seemed  too 
fat  to  frolic,  save  more  than  to  play  a  trick 
or  two  on  the  hounds  that  blinked  in  the 
sun. 

Down  toward  Stratford  there  are  flat 
islands  covered  with  sedge,  long  rows  of 
weeping-willows,  low  hazel,  hawthorne, 
and  places  where  "  Green  Grow  the 
Rushes  O."  Then,  if  the  farmer  leaves  a 
spot  untilled,  the  dogrose  pre-empts  the 
place  and  showers  its  petals  on  the 
vagrant  winds.  Meadowsweet,  forget-me- 
nots,  and  wild  geranium  smuggle  them- 
selves below  the  boughs  of  the  sturdy 
yews. 

The  first  glimpse  we  get  of  Stratford  is 
352 


Sbakespeare 


the.  spire  of  Holy  Trinity  ;  then  conies 
the  tower  of  the  new  Memorial  Theatre, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  exactly  like  the 
city  hall  at  Dead  Horse,  Colorado. 

Stratford  is  just  another  village  of 
Niagara  Falls.  The  same  shops,  the 
same  guides,  the  same  hackmen — all  are 
there  save  poor  Lo,  with  his  beadwork 
and  sassafras.  In  fact,  a  "cabby"  just 
outside  of  New  Place  offered  to  take  me 
to  the  Whirlpool,  and  the  Canada  side  for 
a  dollar.  At  least,  this  is  what  I  thought 
he  said.  Of  course,  it  is  barely  possible 
that  I  was  day-dreaming,  but  I  think  the 
facts  are  that  it  was  he  who  dozed,  and 
waking  suddenly  as  I  passed  gave  me  the 
wrong  cue. 

There  is  a  Macbeth  livery  stable,  a  Fal- 
staff  bakery,  and  all  of  the  shops  and 
stores  keep  Othello  this  and  Hamlet 
that.  I  saw  briarwood  pipes  with  Shake- 
speare's face  carved  on  the  bowl,  all  for 
one-and-six  ;  feather  fans  with  advice  to 
the  plaj7ers  printed  across  the  folds  ;  the 
Seven  Ages  on  handkerchiefs  and  souve- 
353 


Zbe  Ibaunts  of 


nir  spoons  galore,  all  warranted  Gor- 
ham's  best. 

The  visitor  at  the  birthplace  is  given  a 
cheerful  little  lecture  on  the  various  relics 
and  curiosities  as  they  are  shown.  The 
young  ladies  who  perform  this  office  are 
clever  women  with  pleasant  voices,  and 
big  starched  white  aprons.  I  was  at 
Stratford  four  days  and  went  just  four 
times  to  the  old  curiosity  shop.  Bach  day 
the  same  bright  British  damsel  conducted 
me  through,  and  told  her  tale,  but  it  was 
always  with  animation,  and  a  certain 
sweet  satisfaction  in  her  mission  and 
starched  apron,  that  was  very  charming. 

No  man  can  tell  the  same  story  over 
and  over  without  soon  reaching  a  point 
where  he  betrays  his  weariness,  and  then 
he  flavors  the  whole  with  a  dash  of  con- 
tempt ;  but  a  good  woman,  heaven  bless 
her  !  is  ever  eager  to  please.  Bach  time 
when  we  came  to  that  document  certified 

to  by  "Judith     x     Shakespeare,"  I  was 
Mark 

told  that  it  was  very  probable  that  Judith 

354 


Sbafcegpeare 


could  write,  but  that  she  affixed  her  name 
thus  in  merry  jest. 

John  Shakespeare  could  not  write,  we 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Ann 
Hathaway  could,  and  this  little  explana- 
tion about  the  daughter  is  so  very  good 
that  it  deserves  to  rank  with  that  other 
pleasant  subterfuge,  "  The  age  of  miracles 
is  past ; "  or  that  bit  of  jolly  clap-trap  con- 
cerning the  sacred  baboons  that  are  seen 
about  certain  temples  in  India  :  "  They 
can  talk,"  explain  the  priests,  "but  being 
wise  they  never  do." 

Judith  married  Thomas  Quiney.  The 
only  letter  addressed  to  Shakespeare  that 
can  be  found  is  one  from  the  happy  father 
of  Thomas,  Mr.  Richard  Quiney,  wherein 
he  asks  for  a  loan  of  thirty  pounds. 
Whether  he  was  accommodated  we  can- 
not say ;  and  if  he  was,  did  he  pay  it 
back,  is  a  question  that  has  caused  much 
hot  debate.  But  it  is  worthy  of  note  that 
although  considerable  doubt  as  to  au- 
thenticity has  smooched  the  other  Shake- 
sperian  relics,  yet  the  fact  of  the  poet  hav- 
355 


Zbc  Ibaunts  ot 


ingbeen  "struck  "  for  a  loan  by  Richard 
Quiney  stands  out  in  a  solemn  way  as 
the  one  undisputed  thing  in  the  mas- 
ter's career.  little  did  Mr.  Quiney  think, 
when  he  wrote  that  letter  that  he  was 
writing  for  the  ages.  Philanthropists 
have  won  all  by  giving  money,  but  who 
save  Quiney  have  reaped  immortality  by 
asking  for  it ! 

The  inscription  over  Shakespeare's 
grave  is  an  offer  of  reward  if  you  do,  and 
a  threat  of  punishment  if  you  don't,  all 
in  choice  doggerel.  Why  did  he  not 
learn  at  the  feet  of  Sir  Thomas  Lncy  and 
write  his  own  epitaph  ? 

But  I  rather  guess  I  know  why  his 
grave  was  not  marked  with  his  name.  He 
was  a  play-actor,  and  the  church  people 
would  have  been  outraged  at  the  thought 
of  burying  a  "  strolling  player"  in  that 
sacred  chancel.  But  his  son-in-law,  Dr. 
John  Hall,  honored  the  great  man  and 
was  bound  he  should  have  a  worthy  rest- 
ing place  ;  so  at  midnight,  with  the  help 
of  a  few  trusted  friends,  he  dug  the  grave 
356 


Sbafcespeare 


and  lowered  the  dust  of  England's  greatest 
son.  Then  they  hastily  replaced  the 
stones,  and  over  the  grave  they  placed  the 
slab  that  they  had  brought : 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear, 

To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here, 
Blest  be  the  man  who  spares  these  stones, 

And  cursed  be  he  who  moves  my  bones. 

A  threat  from  a  ghost  !  ah,  no  one  dare 
molest  that  grave — besides  they  did  n't 
know  who  was  buried  there — neither  are 
we  quite  sure.  Long  years  after  the  in- 
terment, some  one  set  a  bust  of  the  poet, 
and  a  tablet,  on  the  wall  over  against  the 
grave. 

Under  certain  circumstances,  if  occa- 
sion demands,  I  might  muster  a  sublime 
conceit ;  but  considering  the  fact  that  ten 
thousand  Americans  visit  Stratford  every 
year,  and  all  write  descriptions  of  the 
place,  I  dare  not  in  the  face  of  Badaeker 
do  it.  Further  than  that  in  every  library 
there  are  Washington  Irving,  Hawthorne, 
and  William  Winter's  three  lachrymose 
but  charming  volumes. 
357 


Sbafcespeare 


And  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  the 
Columbus  who  discovered  Stratford  and 
gave  it  to  the  people  was  an  American ; 
I  am  proud  to  think  that  Americans  have 
written  so  charmingly  of  Shakespeare ; 
I  am  proud  to  know  that  at  Stratford  no 
man  besides  the  master  is  honored  as 
Irving,  and  while  I  cannot  restrain  a 
blush  for  our  English  cousins,  I  am  proud 
that  over  half  the  visitors  at  the  birth- 
place are  Americans,  and  prouder  still  am 
I  to  remember  that  they  all  write  letters 
to  the  newspapers  at  home  about  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon. 


358 


II. 


ENGLAND  relegates  her  Poets  to  a 
*  Corner."     The    earth   and  the 
fulness  thereof  belongs  to  the  men 
who  can  kill ;  on  this  rock  have  her  State 
and  Church  been  built. 

As  the  tourist  approaches  the  city  of 
London  for  the  first  time,  there  are  four 
monuments  that  probably  will  attract  his 
attention.  They  lift  themselves  out  of 
the  fog  and  smoke  and  soot,  and  seem 
to  struggle  toward  the  blue. 

One  of  these  monuments  is  to  com- 
memorate a  calamity— the  conflagration 
of  1666— and  the  others  are  in  honor  of 
deeds  of  war. 

The  finest  memorial  in  St.   Paul's  is 
to  a  certain  eminent  Irishman,  Arthur 
Wellesley.    The  mines  and  quarries  of 
359 


Gbe  Ibaunts  of 


earth  have  been  called  on  for  their  richest 
contributions  ;  and  talent  and  skill  have 
given  their  all  to  produce  this  enduring 
work  of  beauty,  that  tells  posterity  of  the 
mighty  acts  of  this  mighty  man.  The 
rare  richness  and  lavish  beauty  of  the 
Wellington  mausoleum  are  only  surpassed 
by  a  certain  tomb  in  France. 

As  an  exploiter,  the  Corsican  overdid 
the  thing  a  bit — so  the  world  arose  and 
put  him  down  ;  but  safely  dead,  his  shade 
can  boast  a  grave  so  sumptuous  that  Eng- 
lishmen in  Paris  refuse  to  look  upon  it. 

But  England  need  not  be  ashamed.  Her 
land  is  spiked  with  glistening  monuments 
to  greatness  gone.  And  on  these  monu- 
ments one  often  gets  the  epitomized  life 
of  the  man  whose  dust  lies  below. 

On  the  carved  marble  to  Lord  Corn- 
wallis  I  read  that  "  He  defeated  the 
Americans  with  great  slaughter."  And 
so,  wherever  in  England  I  see  a  beautiful 
monument  I  know  that  probably  the  in- 
scription will  tell  how  "he  defeated" 
somebody.  And  one  grows  to  the  belief 
360 


Sbakespeare 


that,  while  woman's  glory  is  in  her  hair, 
man's  glory  is  to  defeat  some  one.  And 
if  he  can  "  defeat  with  great  slaughter  " 
his  monument  is  twice  as  high  as  if  he 
had  only  visited  on  his  brother  man  a 
plain  undoing. 

In  truth,  I  am  told  by  a  friend  who  has 
a  bias  for  statistics,  that  all  monuments 
above  fifty  feet  high  in  England  are  to  the 
honor  of  men  who  have  defeated  other 
men  "  with  great  slaughter."  The  only 
exceptions  to  this  rule  are  the  Albert 
Memorial,  which  is  a  tribute  of  wifely 
affection  rather  than  a  public  testimonial, 
so  therefore  need  not  be  considered  here, 
and  a  monument  to  a  worthy  brewer  who 
died  and  left  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  charity.  I  mentioned  this  fact 
to  my  friend,  but  he  unhorsed  me  by 
declaring  that  modesty  forbade  carving 
truth  on  monuments,  yet  it  was  a  fact 
that  the  brewer,  too,  had  brought  defeat  to 
vast  numbers  and  had,  like  Saul,  slaugh- 
tered his  thousands. 

When  I  visited  the  site  of  the  Globe 
361 


Gbe  Daunts  of 


Theatre  and  found  thereon  a  brewery, 
whose  shares  are  warranted  to  make  the 
owner  rich  beyond  the  dream  of  avarice, 
I  was  depressed.  In  my  boyhood  I  had 
supposed  that  if  ever  I  should  reach  this 
spot  where  Shakespeare's  plays  were  first 
produced,  I  should  see  a  beautiful  park 
and  a  splendid  monument ;  while  some 
white-haired  old  patriarch  would  greet 
me,  and  give  a  little  lecture  to  the  assem- 
bled pilgrims  on  the  great  man  whose 
footsteps  had  made  sacred  the  soil  be- 
neath our  feet. 

But  there  is  no  park,  and  no  monument, 
and  no  white-haired  old  poet  to  give  you 
welcome — only  a  brewery. 

"Ay,  mon,  but  ain't  ut  a  big  un?" 
protested  an  Englishman  who  heard  my 
murmurs. 

Yes,  yes,  I  must  be  truthful — it  is  a  big 
brewery,  and  there  are  four  big  bull-dogs 
in  the  court-way  ;  and  there  are  big  vats, 
and  big  workmen  in  big  aprons.  And 
each  of  these  workmen  is  allowed  to 
drink  six  quarts  of  beer  each  day,  without 
362 


Sbafcespeare 

charge,  which  proves  that  kindliness  is 
not  dead.  Then  there  are  big  horses  that 
draw  the  big  wagons,  and  on  the  corner 
there  is  a  big  tap-room  where  the  thirsty 
are  served  with  big  glasses. 

The  founder  of  this  brewery  became 
rich  ;  and  if  my  statistical  friend  is  right, 
the  owners  of  these  mighty  vats  have 
defeated  mankind  with  "great  slaugh- 
ter." 

We  have  seen  that  although  Napoleon, 
the  defeated,  has  a  more  gorgeous  tomb 
than  Wellington,  who  defeated  him,  yet 
there  is  consolation  in  the  thought  that 
although  England  has  no  monument  to 
Shakespeare  he  now  has  the  freedom  of 
Elysium  ;  while  the  present  address  of 
the  British  worthies  who  have  battened 
and  fattened  on  poor  humanity's  thirst 
for  strong  drink,  since  Samuel  Johnson 
was  executor  of  Thrale's  estate,  is  un- 
known. 

We  have  this  on  the  authority  of  Walter 
Blackburn  Harte,  who  says  :  "The  vir- 
tues essential  and  peculiar  to  the  exalted 
363 


Zbc  Ibaunts  of 


station  of  British  Worthy  debars  the  un- 
fortunate possessor  from  entering  Para- 
dise. There  is  not  a  Lord  Chancellor,  or 
Lord  Mayor,  or  Lord  of  the  Chamber,  or 
Master  of  the  Hounds,  or  Beefeater  in 
Ordinary,  or  any  sort  of  British  bigwig, 
out  of  the  whole  of  British  Beadledom, 
upon  which  the  sun  never  sets,  in  Ely- 
sium. This  is  the  only  dignity  beyond 
their  reach." 

Mr.  Harte  is  an  honorable  man,  and  I 
am  sure  he  would  not  make  this  assertion 
if  he  did  not  have  proof  of  the  facts.  So, 
for  the  present,  I  will  allow  Mr.  Harte  to 
go  on  his  own  recognizance,  believing 
that  he  will  adduce  his  documents  at  the 
proper  time. 

But  still  should  not  England  have  a 
fitting  monument  to  Shakespeare?  H» 
is  her  one  universal  citizen.  His  name  is 
honored  in  every  school,  or  college  of 
earth  where  books  are  prized.  There  is 
no  scholar  in  any  clime  who  is  not  his 
debtor. 

He  was  born  in  England,  he  never  was 
364 


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out  of  England  ;  his  ashes  rest  in  Eng- 
land. But  England's  Budget  has  never 
been  ballasted  with  a  single  pound  to 
help  preserve  inviolate  the  memory  of 
her  one  son  to  whom  the  world  uncovers. 

Victor  Hugo  has  said  something  on  this 
subject  about  like  this  : 

Why  a  monument  to  Shakespeare? 

He  is  his  own  monument  and  England 
is  its  pedestal.  Shakespeare  has  no  need 
of  a  pyramid  ;  he  has  his  work. 

What  can  bronze  or  marble  do  for 
him  ?  Malachite  and  alabaster  are  of  no 
avail ;  jasper,  serpentine,  basalt,  por- 
phyry, granite  :  stones  from  Paros  and 
marble  from  Cararra — they  are  all  a  waste 
of  pains  :  genius  can  do  without  them. 

What  is  as  indestructible  as  these  : 
The  Tempest,  The  Winter's  Tale,  Julius 
Ccesar,  Coriolanus?  What  monument 
sublimer  than  Lear,  sterner  than  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  more  dazzling  than 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  more  amazing  than 
Richard  III.  ? 

What  moon  could  shed  about  the  pile 
365 


Sbafcespeare 


a  light  more  mystic  than  that  of  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  ?  What  capital, 
were  it  even  in  London,  could  rumble 
around  it  as  tumultuously  as  Macbeth's 
perturbed  soul  ?  What  framework  of 
cedar  or  oak  will  last  as  long  as  Othello  ? 
What  bronze  can  equal  the  bronze  of 
Hamlet  ? 

No  construction  of  lime,  or  rock,  of 
iron  and  of  cement  is  worth  the  deep 
breath  of  genius,  which  is  the  respiration 
of  God  through  man.  What  edifice  can 
equal  thought  ?  Babel  is  less  lofty  than 
Isaiah  ;  Cheops  is  smaller  than  Homer  ; 
the  Colosseum  is  inferior  to  Juvenal ;  the 
Giralda  of  Seville  is  dwarfish  by  the  side 
of  Cervantes ;  St.  Peter's  of  Rome  does 
not  reach  to  the  ankle  of  Dante. 

What  architect  has  the  skill  to  build 
a  tower  so  high  as  the  name  of  Shake- 
speare ?  Add  anything  if  you  can  to 
mind  !  Then  why  a  monument  to  Shake- 
speare ? 

I  answer,  not  for  the  glory  of  Shake- 
speare, but  for  the  honor  of  England  ! 
366 


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